


rarely pure (and never simple)

by Choices_We_Make



Series: Truth Universe [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "truth's like blood..." sequel, Abusive Dursley Family, Also maybe some fluff, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Conflicted Snape, First for me really, Gen, Harry & Hedwig are besties, Harry has the best friends, Hurt-and-comfort-y but like with an owl?, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Just putting that there, No cuddleface Snape, Pets are the best, Probably read "truth's like blood..." first or certain references might be confusing, References to abusive Dursleys, Sequel, Severitus, Severitus sort-of?, Sick Harry, Sick Hedwig, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin!Harry, Snape does what he wants, Snape is STILL NOT CUDDLY GUYS, Snape's trying ok?, idk anymore, it's not a one-shot anymore folks, my baby grew up, set in Truth universe, ya'll deserve this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choices_We_Make/pseuds/Choices_We_Make
Summary: It's Nott who finally surprises Severus by speaking up, small dark eyes strangely intense."It's Potter's owl, sir."Severus eyes Potter with interest, but the boy's lips are pinched tight, shoulders hitched, and he's staring at the ground without saying a word.Well, well.Severus' night has just got interesting (...if by interesting you mean completely hijacked by one irritating and distraught prepubescent boy).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey peeps, I am BACK! This has been sitting on my laptop for _months_ because I couldn't get over the fact that I just _didn't like it._ My darling HaviCat has convinced me to just post it anyway, so everybody go leave her nice cookies and chocolate in the comments if you like this :)  
>  Basically this fic happened because I wanted to write Hedwig and Harry.  
> I blame the larger delay of this fic on that brief writer's block, and the fact that every time I tried to "research" snowy owls, I ended up spending countless lost hours watching videos of owls making ridiculous faces and baby owls getting baths.  
> On the bright side, I now know ALL the most adorabsy owl vids out there in case anyone wants to know ;D

_"The... truth is rarely pure, and never simple." (Oscar Wilde)_

Severus Snape attributes it to some sixth-sense that teachers have: the ability to know when some of their students are inevitably getting up to trouble. They can't explain it. They can't help it. They just  _know_. And it's this just knowing that has Severus pacing the corridors of the seventh floor at well past midnight.

It's the whispering that finally gives them away. Children should never sneak out with friends; no matter how quiet they _mean_ to be,they can't resist the pull of their own unutterable stupidity - thus it becomes their downfall. Severus lets a grim smile curl his lips as he rounds the corner, flourishing a glowing wand tip to illuminate the guilty party. 

He narrows his eyes. "Nott. Zabini."

Several theories are playing through his head, but steps forward to get a better look at the third figure, hanging back and still encased in shadows. He knows who it is even before he says the name. 

"Potter," He growls. 

Ah. He should have expected this. He might not know how yet, but Potter is absolutely responsible. 

"Sir," the boy mutters. 

Lowering his wand arm so his lumos isn't quite as blinding, Severus straightens, robes falling outward around him, trying to dampen some misguided sense of betrayal and anger. Because Severus Snape is angry, make no mistake about it, righteous fury rushing straight through to his head, and it's all directed at the muzzy haired little idiot in front of him. 

He's angry, and it takes him a little by surprise, because in the past few weeks since Severus gave Potter the photograph, they've been stuck in some sort of uneasy neutrality. Anger against the boy - well, he's tried to find it on more than one occasion, tried to conjure some up when those round glasses and ridiculous hair caught the edge of his line of vision, but it seemed there simply wasn't any to summon.

This, though, this blatant advantage-taking of Severus' good graces, galls him. He may, in a moment of weakness, have given the boy a token, but that does not mean he gets to skip around carte blanche with Severus' favor! This sort of gratuitous, haphazard rule-breaking is exactly what Severus has sworn to break in the boy, and after one kindness, one reluctant extended hand, the presumption, the nerve of the boy to -

"Respect, Potter! Head up!"

Potter lifts his head reluctantly, and all three of the boys shuffle closer together, straightening before him like they're facing some final doom. Well, he won't disabuse them of the notion. Not before he gets what he wants out of them. 

Severus gestures sharply with his wand and and even though his voice addresses all three of them, his black eyes don't move from Potter's face. _"Explain."_

Potter's jaw shifts, his top teeth dragging against his lower lip as his eyes dart to his comrades. 

"I -" He stops and swallows, starts again, resolve gathering rather obviously beneath Severus' glower. "I challenged them to a race. Flying. It's my fault, sir, they didn't want to -"

Severus is barely bothering to pay attention to Potter's words, though, because Blaise Zabini's brows are plunging in a dubious expression, and Nott's face has gone suspiciously neutral. Severus had a feeling they're both screaming at Potter in their heads, but, well, that's what happens when you leave the one person who's a terrible liar to speak for the group (really? They're on the seventh floor because they're headed _outside_ for a broom race? If he didn't know it was just Potter's innate and all-consuming brainlessness, Severus might feel offended by the suggestions of his own level of intelligence in such an obvious lie). Severus' lips stretch into a smile.

"Lying to protect your friends? An appallingly Gryffindor tendency, Potter." 

Potter falls silent, and this is where it starts, the fear, his pulse quickening, his throat pulsing. Severus can see him fight it down, search for a sharp reply, then falter. 

"Alright," Potter's blinking, in the dim light, his eyes shimmering behind their glass. "Alright - but I talked them into this -"

"You," Severus glares, meeting each boy's eyes in turn, "have seconds to tell me what you are actually doing in this hall before I lose my patience and assign Potter an even harsher detention and endless weeks without his broom - which," his voice slides smooth and sibilant, "incidentally Potter, you seemed to have missed carrying with you when you set out for your midnight _broom_ race!"

Dismayed, indignant, Potter nevertheless draws himself up stubbornly, lips closed in muted rebellion. Zabini glances at the other boy, then sends a reluctant, almost apologetic look at his Head. 

It's Nott who surprise Severus, studying him intently for a moment with a steady, assessing gaze, his small, dark eyes strangely intense. 

After a moment, his lips purse.

"It's Potter's owl, sir." He says finally. 

"Potter's _owl?"_ Severus' lips thin as he swivels forbiddingly toward Potter. He should have guessed - they're close to the entrance of the West Tower. "If you think that I'm going to let you off with light consequences because you _missed your pet,_ I assure you -" 

"Not that! It's sick!" Blaise Zabini pushes forward, sounding a little desperate, but Potter hasn't spoken at all, and it makes Severus pause. 

Potter won't look at him, shoulders hitched up, not even bothering to glare at his friends. 

So. Poor little Potter's pathetic owl is sick. 

"And what, exactly, were you three planning to do about it?" Severus sneers.

There's a long silence before Theodore says evenly, "Well, Blaise and I wanted to see her, first, try to ascertain more of her condition, but -"

He reluctantly draws out a handful of rather limp looking small green leaves from his pocket. 

"Valerian, Mr. Nott?" Severus jolts to look at him.

"We got it from Hagrid's garden," Blaise admits. 

"So I see," Says Severus, softly, coldly. "And have you any concrete idea of what feeding the animal valerian leaves might do to it?" 

Potter protests, "It's got loads of healing properties, we just thought -"

"Enough!" Severus snaps. 

Potter, he can see Potter being motivated by strong bursts of emotion, logic in the wind, but the other two? Two true Slytherins jumping into a rule-breaking scheme with such a shaky idea of what they were doing, no substantial plan? He expected better of Zabini and Nott.

"Potter, detention."

"Yes, _sir,"_ the boy mutters resentfully.

"Tomorrow. With Filch." Severus bites, and finally sees the flash of dismay in Potter's eyes before they sweep to the floor again.

Feeling better now that he's punished the brat, he stares the boys down. 

"Nott, Zabini, to bed." He says. 

Nott doesn't even hesitate, lips barely turning up at his head as he squares his shoulders and turns away, and Severus pushes away the feeling that Nott's just trustingly handed over the well-being of his friend to his Head.

"What about me?" Potter says in a small voice. 

Severus stares him into silence. "You stay."

Zabini bites his lips and slumps, glares a little at Severus, but after a moment follows Nott back down the hall. 

Potter's body stiffens as he registers the abandonment of his friends. He draws a breath and gathers his classic braced, defiant look to meet Severus' gaze. 

"Not expecting a beating, are you, Potter?" Severus taunts, a cold smile curling his lips. 

 _There it is._ Potter's eyes flare with anger. 

"Why, Professor? Are you thinking of handing one out?" 

Severus leans back. "I don't think I need to, Potter, do I?" He says smoothly. "What I would like to do, far better, is to see what you think is worthy of the risk of incurring my wrath this night."

The boy's brow wrinkles warily. 

Severus motions him ahead to lead the way.  "Take me to your owl, Potter."

Those white little fists clench again, and Severus swears the next word on the boy's breath is going to be _no_. Merlin, was there ever a boy so contrary!

"Sir," Potter starts, his voice surprisingly level, and his eyes have softened to an appeal as he peers up. "Please don't - I've been doing the best I can, don't, don't punish her because of me -"

The boy really is prone to babbling, isn't he?

"Potter!" Severus snaps. He doesn't have time for this. "I won't ask again."

It's a silent, uneasy trek, and when they reach the steps, Potter pauses. 

"Sir -"

"I'm not here to listen to your whinging, Potter. Show me your owl or it suffers for your impudence." 

That makes the boy swallow his words, dismay flashing in his gaze, and without another word he takes the first stair up to the tower of the west corner. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't hurt her!" Potter says fiercely, and if the boy was begging earlier, he's not now, aura radiating fight me as much as his eleven-year-old body can project. "She's sick, and tired, and she doesn't know you-"
> 
> "There is one person of authority in this room, boy, and it is not you!" Severus grinds out. "Now step away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo….yes. As you may have guess, this little project has runaway with me a bit. It is no longer a two-shot but a *ficlet*. I hope you all are happy. ;)

The air at the top of the West Tower is high and cold; there's a draft from all the open windows, and a distinctly unpleasant barnyard smell despite them. 

The boy, still barefoot, with his school robe wrapped over his nightclothes, makes a beeline for a white snowy owl resting on a low perch in the corner. Clinging woozily to it's perch, the owl is swaying, resting it's head against the cool stone wall. It cooes a little at the boy, looking disgustingly pleased to see him. 

Potter's on his knees in front of her, whispering and petting soothingly, hard edges and adrenaline falling away from him like snow melting off a warm jacket. 

"It's alright, Hedwig. It's alright," The boy's murmuring over and over, and it's as if he doesn't even remember Severus is in the room. 

"Potter," Severus says sternly.

"Sir!" Potter's all urgent and imploring as he turns, and Severus is taken back to see a glimmer in his eyes before he blinks it back. 

The word "help" won't pass his lips, Severus knows, but the boy's begging for it all the same, in a way he never would for himself (already, Severus knows this about him). 

"She's worse, sir. She's worse than the last time I saw her -"

Severus pulls him harshly away from the owl, steps into take a look at her. 

Alright. Alright, he's immediately able to dismiss the wiggling, whinging  voice at the back of his head that is so sure that this whole thing was some prank of Potter's to keep Severus out of bed. 

The owl peers at him, glassy-eyed and dubious. Severus is used to being the subject of a distrustful gaze, so he ignores it and is reaching out a hand to get a better look at her when she seems to rally weakly, gnashing her beak at him. 

"Potter!" Severus snarls, snatching his hand backward, while the boy leaps forward with a startled cry. 

"Hedwig, _no!"_

Severus glances over his pale skin to verify that the beak didn't actually catch him, and looks up to tell Potter to _get control of his bloody bird._ But the boy's standing, wedged in-between the rather annoyed looking fowl and Severus, body curved protectively over his owl, and the words die in Severus' throat. 

"Don't hurt her!" Potter says fiercely, and if the boy was begging earlier, he's not now, aura radiating _fight me_ as much as his eleven-year-old body can project. "She's sick, and tired, and she doesn't know you-"

"There is one person of authority in this room, boy, and it is not you!" Severus grinds out. "Now step away."

Potter draws himself up, guarded. "Only if - I mean, will you promise you won't hurt her?"

Oh, the boy wants him to _promise…_ something dark and painful in Severus scoffs. There's innocence yet; one day he will learn how very little words mean. 

"Potter," Severus warns him evenly. 

The boy stares at him for a moment, probably fighting every instinct he has, and Severus expects to have to haul the boy away kicking, if not screaming. A little intimidation hasn't gone wrong before...

He's surprised a moment later when the boy lowers his tense stance incrementally, swallows, lets out a single nod. 

There's something new, tentative, in his swirly green gaze, because every other time he's given way to Severus, it's been fear, fear, terror, _grown-up authority hurt hurt hurt_. Severus is not stupid; the boy has more often purposefully antagonized him than yielded to him, but when he has yielded, _that_ has been his motivation. _Placate angry adult NOW_ , and Severus is all to aware of that particular impulse. 

This, for the first time, feels different. 

This, for the first time, feels like permission. Like an offering….like a gift. Like two-and-a-half-weeks-ago sitting in Severus' office with a photograph between them and something blossoming unspeakable and new. This, for the first time, feels a little bit like trust. 

The thought makes Severus stiffen in alarm, want to take that fragile branch of trust and shove it back at the boy, but all he can do is stand there feeling the slightest bit ill while Potter turns back to crouch by his bird. 

"Hedwig, I know it's hard," the boy hushes her, his face so eleven-year-old _solemn_. "I need you to let him…he's going to help you, alright?"

He pets a finger affectionately down one snowy white wing and she slumps into it a little, giving a feeble, agreeable hoot. 

Severus' hands are awkwardly gentle as they reach for the sick bird again, Potter's voice a panicky babble in the background as Severus inspects the fluffy, sleepy bird.

"I try to come up often, and I don't think she's left the Owlery for almost two days. Usually she'll go out and hunt but…I don't know - I couldn't figure out what was wrong, I didn't know what to do -" 

Severus turns away from his examination, and the boy braces his shoulders, shoving his fisted hands as far down into his pockets as they'll go. Face grim, Potter lifts resigned eyes. 

"Is she…will she make it? Is she…" He hesitates.

"Don't be so melodramatic, Potter," Severus says. "Your bird will be fine."

"But - there's something wrong with her. What's wrong with her?"

 _Merlin help me._ "I'd love to spend what little time I have before dawn explaining extensively the inner working of an owl's biology to you, Potter, but _maybe_ this once, you should actually do what you're told without wasting vast amounts of time with your unnecessary _questions_!" 

Potter's chin jerks up, his cheeks flaring with heat, for a moment he looks like he's going to spit out one of those scathing replies he's so well-known for, but then his gaze shifts to his bird, and Severus watches him bite it back. 

"Fine." Potter says. "What needs to be done, then?" 

When Severus doesn't say anything else, pinning the boy with his eyes, Potter speaks again, his voice not quite steady, but shot through with resolve. 

"I mean - just tell me. Tell me what to do to save her. I'll do it, you won't have to do anything, she won't be any extra work for you." 

He watches Potter break apart under the silence, watches him collapse and rebuild himself with that temperamental youthful flexibility and a painfully hard-headed tenaciousness. His face and expressive eyes flash through so many emotions Severus nearly gets dizzy watching them, seems like a toss-up where the features are going to settle. 

"Sir, you can't - help me, blast it! Please. Please? Don't let her suffer because of me. You can't just stand there, please, it's not her fault I picked her! You _can't just stand there_ and not help her. You can't." 

Potter's mouth sets stubbornly, the edges of his eyes are wrinkling but he's still not crying, not even one tear let loose, _you can't,_ he says, like his very denying of it will make it a physical impossibility. 

Part of Severus wants to protest the undeniable pain in the boy's eyes as exaggerated and theatrical - it's not like his bird's _dying_ , after all. 

But nobody has to explain to Severus Snape the damage that people can do by just standing there.

It's another harsh beat of nothing, nothing heard but the ruffle of feathers as the owl moves golden eyes to glare at Severus, and the panting breath of the boy in front of her before Severus says anything, trying to quiet the unfamiliarity of things raging beneath his skin. His voice is stony and automatic when he does speak. 

"The bird has a slightly bruised wing, which prevented her from leaving the Owlery to follow her normal hunting routine and led to her current condition of dehydration and undernourishment."

Severus pauses, then, "She needs warmth, quiet, rest, food…I have a salve in my laboratory that will accelerate her healing if we wrap her wing with it."

"Can you - will you-" Potters stops, then admits it, voice low, says it like he's confessing to a crime. "I can't think of anything to give - I'll give you something, anything, I don't know what you would want from me-"

He chokes a little, resignation written all over his slumped body.

"A decent potions essay would be a start." Severus says before he can think better of it, the words quick and off-handed. 

Potter's messy head jerks to him, eyes incredulous. "What?"

"Honestly, you fool. Do you assume me to be so heedlessly cruel as to allow an innocent-" (well, _mostly_ innocent _,_ that rabid fowl did try to bite his bloody finger off,) "-animal to suffer needlessly and for no reason?"

"Well. I-" 

 _Yes,_ says his confused gaze. 

Severus sniffed. "I may be spiteful, yet even I draw lines somewhere. If I expected pay-back every time I helped one of you sniveling idiots, I'd live life sour and disappointed."

He barely hears the hurried mutter, "And that would be different how?" before Potter says louder, "So you will? Help her?"

"My office would be a suitable temporary place." Severus says stiffly. 

Potter nods. 

"I'll take her," he says quietly. 

He unwraps his school robe from around him, soft and smooth in the dim light, and wraps it around the owl before gathering her up, her white feathers a contrast against the black. Slytherin's green emblem blinks up off the cloak at Severus from somewhere down the owl's chest. 

A minute shiver from Potter tears Severus' gaze away. The boy's nightclothes - which now that Severus looks at them, are _appalling_ , is that what the child wears to _bed? -_ are short sleeved and raggedy, offering almost no barrier to the night air. Potter shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. 

"You won't have to - sir, I can take care of her." Potter pledges earnestly. "I'll even, I mean, I can find a way to pay you back for anything she costs you."

Ignoring him completely, Severus sweeps his hand out widely.

"Potter, _come,_ " he orders, and Potter does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3, people!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up. He wakes up, and is overcome with the creeping feeling of something off, body almost vibrating with the sense of wrong. His mind is groggy, protesting one long minute and the next - his eyes widen through crusty-layered corners. Hedwig. She’s not there, not in the tower, she’s sick, she’s - she’s with Snape. In fact, Harry’s last remembrance is Hedwig, Hedwig and Snape, the box he settled her in, Snape about to slather salve on Hedwig’s bruised wing before Harry stepped forward (“I can do it. Sir,” being gentle, so gentle, fingers so light brushing over her).  
> Immediately, Harry feels a rush of guilt. Hedwig is sick, and he left her alone. She sick, and alone, in an unfamiliar place, with a person she doesn’t trust...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was in a car crash last week and this chapter got delayed. Sorry ya'll. But! It is extra long to make up for it, and also the first chapter from Harry's POV. This "ficlet" is turning into a monster, guys...Enjoy ;D

When Harry gets back to the dorms, there are two shadowed figures waiting for him on his bed. His brain is so scattered, he draws himself up tiredly at first, thinking of Malfoy and his goons, laying in wait, waiting for a fight. But a whispered, “lumos” _,_ and then Blaise’s face is illumined behind the dim glow of his wand, just enough light to see each other by, not enough to wake the other boys. 

“Hey, Harry,” Blaise hails, with an easy little wave of his non-wand-holding hand and a smile far too warm and perky for this time of - well, morning.

Nott acknowledge him too, tone unreadable. 

“Potter.”

Harry should probably be angry, probably feel betrayed. The memory of Blaise blurting out Harry’s secret to their severe Head of House, the way Nott straightened, spun, how he walked away down that hallway without looking back. Harry thinks he should, but he just can’t summon the energy. 

“Hello,” he says cooly. 

But then Blaise leans forward, concern flashing in his warm eyes, and says, “how’s Hedwig, mate?”  and Harry feels something snap.

The other boy _told_ Snape, Snape is practically his nemesis, everybody in the _House_ knows that, and Blaise did it anyway. He can’t do that, and then look at Harry all friendly that way and call him that. He doesn’t _get_ to.

“You’re not my mates,” he flares.

Not sniffs, folding his arms across his chest. “First I’ve heard of it,” he says. 

“Alright.” Blaise says finally, all easy and gentle. “Fine, we’re not mates. Take it easy. Now how’s Hedwig?”

Harry crumbles a little, and he doesn’t throw himself at Blaise, but he _wants_ to, more than anything. 

“I thought -“ he gasps a little, trying to get the words out. “I thought she was going to _die_ and I - Snape has - her wing’s - _bloody_ man- she _bit_ him and - but she’s. She’s alright. She’s alright.”

“Of course she is,” Blaise says firmly. He has Harry by both shoulders, and Harry feels like that’s all that’s keeping him upright. “Shhh, don’t want an audience for this, Harry, let’s not wake anyone else. Only got a couple more hours ‘till breakfast. You can tell us all about it-“

“And you _will_ tell us about it-“ Nott says,

“-in the _morning_.” Blaise stresses, eyeing Nott. 

“Just one thing - Potter,“ Nott says suddenly, stepping so close to Harry that Blaise has to back up to make room for him. “Professor Snape, he helped you?”

“Hedwig’s in his office now,” Harry admits. 

There’s a sort of satisfied gleam in the other boy’s eyes as he leans back that Harry is almost too tired to wonder about.

Harry doesn’t quite remember how he ends up in bed, but he does know that it’s Blaise who fluffs the pillow right before Harry puts his head down on it, and that when Harry just curls around his knees on his bare sheets, it’s Theodore Nott that wordlessly draws the blanket up over Harry’s shoulders. 

 

* * *

 Harry wakes up. 

He wakes up, and is overcome with the creeping feeling of something off, body almost vibrating with the sense of _wrong wrong wrong_. The last time he bolted up feeling this apprehensive, he had woken up an hour late on a Sunday morning at the Dursleys - _nope, no, not there_ , he thinks blindly, fingers strangling his soft velvet duvet as proof. 

He’s exhausted - he feels like his eyes closed for mere seconds before they’ve opened again, and they’re stinging in protest, blaring against even the low light of the dorm. But there’s no way Harry is going back to sleep. 

He heaves a sigh, creeps from his bed, hauls himself up into the body-sized window seat, and lets himself wake up slowly. His mind is groggy, protesting one long minute and the next - his eyes widen through crusty-layered corners. _Hedwig._ She’s not there, not in the tower, she’s sick, she’s - she’s with Snape. In fact, Harry’s last remembrance is Hedwig, Hedwig and Snape, the box he settled her in, Snape about to slather salve on Hedwig’s bruised wing before Harry stepped forward ( _“I can do it. Sir,”_ being gentle, so gentle, fingers so light brushing over her).

Immediately, Harry feels a rush of guilt. Hedwig is sick, and he left her alone. She sick, and alone, in an unfamiliar place, with a person she doesn’t trust (does Harry? _He can’t - doesn’t - has to)_. He didn’t want to leave her, remembers hesitating, but. 

It wasn’t like Harry could take her back to the dorms; heaven forbid _Malfoy_ or one of the others try to use her to get to him. Harry shudders. Malfoy isn’t _so_ much like Dudley, but he probably wouldn’t mind tormenting an innocent animal to get to Harry, either, or having one of his goons do it. With the amount of smalltime spite Harry’s still dealing with, and he is - dealing with it - it’s not enough to make Harry do anything about it really, but it’s enough to express their sentiment, and it’s not a sentiment he wants to put Hedwig in danger of experiencing. 

He was still reluctant, though, he remembers that, remembers _almost_ asking Snape if he could just - just stay with her. Just for a while, until she got used to things. He could curl up, be quiet, wouldn’t make a _sound_ , he’s good at that when he wants to be, wouldn’t need a blanket or anything….but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Snape was doing more than he’d expected already; he couldn’t reasonably be asked to do more, he’d undoubtedly reject the idea in the most sound and violent way possible. Harry’s done enough, revealed enough, dragged Snape into this bother already. Just because _Harry_ cares about something - cares very, very much - doesn’t mean anyone else should. 

He recalls quiet, the calming tinkle of potions bottles from the other room, laying his head down next to Hedwig's box, one thumb still stroking her good wring as she blinked at him with her knowing eyes.

And then, stumbling back to the dorm. Blaise - Theodore - _“you’re not my mates”._ Harry sucks his breath in so sharply his ribs ache and thinks about what it would be like to lose the only friends he’s ever made. 

He thinks about it all through breakfast, too - sitting by himself. Between that and Hedwig swimming around in his mind, he’s finds he’s got very little appetite, but he chokes down a crumpet and some pumpkin juice anyway. It’s still early, so there’s hardly anyone around in the Great Hall yet, a couple of sleep-tousled Gryffindors and a small group of upper-year Ravenclaws that seem to be performing some kind of experiment over their food; they hardly notice when he stuffs a few pieces of crispy bacon into a napkin that he tucks into his bag, and then wanders back out of the Hall. 

He spends most of the morning going everywhere he knows Blaise and Theodore normally _aren’t_ , all the lonely tucked in corners and hidden spots that a place like Hogwarts hides so well. It reminds him of wandering around the Dursley’s neighborhood, kind of peaceful by himself, if a little lonely, a little wary. 

The hours tick by slowly until he hears some boys passing his spot and realizes everyone’s rushing for their first class of the day. 

He’s hurrying around a corner, about to join the general throng of frantic students, when he hurls hard past a taller body, clipping them on the side and sending himself stumbling, grasping at the wall to catch his balance. He regains himself quickly, though, and turns, an apology falling from his lips,

“Sorry, wasn’t looking where I w’s-“ and then Harry’s teeth click shut as he tries to school his expression into something beside, _oh, drat._

It’’s an older Gryffindor, one who’s at least a fifth year, and Harry knows very little about him except that he’s not good news, and he’s with the full fifty percent of Hogwarts students that seem to hold some kind of grudge against Harry. He remembers the boy’s thick, sandy curls, eyes like he’s scrapping for a fight, the tiny scar by his left eye. Coote, that’s his name. Ritchie Coot. And tripping over Harry Potter in the corridor is obviously the most exciting thing that’s happened in Ritchie Coote’s day. 

Harry’s barely swallowed his apprehension before his bones are jarred against the stone wall behind him, rough hands squeezing the lapels of his Slytherin robes. 

“You were sayin’, firstie?” Coote growls. 

“My mistake,” Harrys says. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“We’ll see about that,” the Gryffindor growls. 

“Not in the mood, Gryff,” Harry huffs.

“No?” The other boy sneers, hands tightening against Harry’s collar. “Then you should stay _outta my way_ , you slimy little pipsqueak!” 

Harry has absolutely zero objections to that but right now he’s little more concerned about _breathing._

“Little-easier, to- do-if yer no’-holding me agains-a, wall!” He gasps. 

Coote decides that’s an invitation to haul Harry up harder, instead of letting him down, and Harry’s just starting to worry that he might be late to his first class - which is Transfiguration with McGonagall, and _not_ one he wants to be late to, when a cheerful voice breaks the stalemate. 

“Here I thought you’d been avoiding me, and now I find you’re just up to your usual trouble!” Says a cheerful voice. 

It startles the older Gryffindor just enough that he loosens his grip, and Harry wiggles downward, trying to wrench away. 

_“Blaise?”_

“H’lo, Harry.” Blaise gives Harry an easy little grin, greets him exactly as if they just happened to bump into each other on a pleasant walk.

“Well, what a happy reunion.” Coote does drop Harry, now, and backs a way a few steps, facing the the two of them. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Coote. I’d love to chat, but I think Harry and I have places to be. Right, Potter?”

Harry purposely doesn’t look Blaise’s way as he nods agreeably. 

“I think if we’re much later, Professor McGonagall might turn us into cats or something,” he says. 

The Gryffindor’s glare sours, but he glances away as if suddenly anxious about being late to his own class, and apparently decides it isn’t worth it. 

“Whatever,” he growls. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

And then Blaise and Harry are left alone. 

Harry feels Blaise’s hand rest lightly, briefly on his shoulder, before it pulls away, and the other boy says finally,

“We really had better get to class.”

Right. Right - no time now, not to deal with this, these confusing swirls that Harry’s feeling, because Blaise just _rescued_ him. Well. Not that Harry had _needed_ it, but still. They’re supposed to be - they’re supposed to be fighting. Blaise is supposed to be - well, not doing _that_. He’s supposed to stiff and seething and smirking and like _everyone else_ now. 

But Harry is pretty used to Blaise being confusing by now, so he just follows him silently as they dart into the crowd, which is quickly thinning out as people find their places. By the time Harry and Blaise walk into the Transfiguration classroom, nearly everyone is there. McGonagall isn’t yet, though, so they’re not late, and Harry breathes a little easier. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like Professor McGonagall - he does, it’s just, she’s just…one of _those_ adults. Everything about her is sharp and cool and precise, and Harry always feels clumsy under her shrewd gaze. She’s not overly fond of Slytherins, but she doesn’t treat them badly either, and that’s more than Harry gets from other people, so he’s tried to do alright by her class. And of course, she doesn’t hold for fooling around any more than Snape does. 

“Here, Potter,” and Harry looks over to see Blaise motioning him to the seat next to him. It feels a little like the first day all over again, except this time, Harry is hesitating. 

Blaise can’t possibly want to sit next to him. Not after what Harry said to him last night. Not since Harry’s _still_ trying to decide whether they’ve made up or not. 

Harry’s feels a shove against his side, and he moves away, expecting it to be another Gryffindor moving into the classroom, but the body follows him. 

“Thought we had a deal, Potter.” Is all Theodore Nott says, and it takes Harry a moment to remember that they've been waiting to hear the whole story about last night. 

“Yes, well, I don’t remember being part of that agreement,” Harry grumbles, but he finally slips into the seat next to Blaise, and Nott slides smoothly down one over from him.

“Look, Harry,” Blaise says. “You might not want to be our mate, but - “ he breaks off reluctantly, leaving the unspoken words hanging. _But we’re still yours._

Harry tries not to look as taken back as he feels. 

He was ready for a fight, for words dull and dark and crushing, but how is he supposed to handle _this?_

Actually, he doesn’t have to, because at that moment Professor McGongall sweeps into the room, claps her hands to bring them to attention, and says, “That’s enough, students, we’re about to begin!”

By the time class is over, Harry is walking away with Blaise and Nott on either side, realizing what he really knew all along: this place is still a little bit a stranger to him, and his enemies are dangerous in a different way here than they are at Number Four Privet Drive. 

He can’t afford to not have friends. 

 

Potions is after Transfiguration, which Harry is both dreading and looking forward to, because he might be able to ask Snape about Hedwig. He lets Nott and Blaise walk him to class, although he doesn’t really talk to them, and the class seems to drag on agonizingly long. 

Snape seems to be himself - Harry wasn’t really expecting otherwise; but he’s determined to be at his best today. He wedges himself in at the cauldron between Nott and Blaise, and tries to focus. 

While Snape rattles off a short spiel about the potion they’re going to make - something called Wiggenweld, Harry gathers ingredients that are written on the chalkboard. It’s just one class. If he can be good enough this once, can grit his teeth and get through it, do the potion well, dodge any disastrous confrontations with his Professor, maybe Snape will let him see Hedwig tonight. She does need her rest, but Harry wouldn’t bother her, he could just be there. So she wasn’t alone. Being sick and alone is one of the most miserable things out there, and Harry would know, he thought bitterly. 

Besides, not making Snape angry, while it’s never been high on Harry’s priority list - he’s going to do all he can to keep Hedwig safe, and while he certainly doesn’t expect the Professor to abuse her, if he swept out of class as fuming at Harry as he normally was, the temptation of having Harry’s owl right there in his own office…

Well. Harry just doesn’t want to take any chances, is all, which means it’s his best behavior from now on. In fact, he can almost hear his aunt’s voice in his ear, horrible and screechy, like she does when they’re having guests over sometimes. _“I want you on your best behavior, boy! Not a_ ** _word_** _from you!”_ He snickers a little at himself, and all the sudden a very different voice is in his ear. 

“Something _funny_ , Mr. Potter?”

Harry vanishes the smirk from his face and tries to look solemn. 

“Absolutely not, sir.” 

“And what are you doing just now?” Snape peers at him suspiciously. 

“I’m-uh, the salamander blood - the fourth time, it should be turning…” 

Curses, curses! Color, potion - should be - 

Blaise nudges him under the table, barely breathes the word, “pink”. 

“Pink. It should be turning pink, and then red, then add the lion fish spines.”

“How many?” Snape says sharply. 

“Five. And then, five more?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

Harry looks away, shoves that temper down, down - “An answer.”

“An answer-?”

“An answer, _Professor.”_

Snape hums, looks at him shrilly before wheeling away, cloak swirling, on to criticize some Gryffindor who hasn’t made it past step 6 yet. 

“Odd,” is Blaise’s low comment. 

“What?” Harry questions, matching his whisper.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll find something to really bite into you for a little later,” Blaise says, smirking a little. 

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

Flobberworm mucus, where is his - 

It’s not quite the shimmering turquoise it’s supposed to be when it’s done, but at least it’s blue, which is more than a lot of others managed, even though it’s been on of the easier potions they’ve done so far. He’s just about to breath a sigh of relief, when he hears a shuffle from Snape’s desk, and a “Potter! See me after class!”, and Harry’s heart sinks. 

“What’d you do _this_ time?” Sniggers Goyle, and actually Harry has no bloody idea. He was doing good, he was!

He bottles some of the Wiggenweld potion - _it’s a healing one, isn’t it?_ \- and waits to be the last to bring it up. 

“You can go,” he whispers to Blaise and Theodore, who are standing by the classroom door, waiting. 

“We’ll meet you in the hall,” Blaise says, and then they’re gone.

Harry takes a breath, forces his head up, and clutches the potion in his hands. It’s _fine_. It’s good. It’s better than half the others in class. 

“I hope you know this attempt at a Wiggenweld potion was a barely acceptable performance, and I’d expect better from a true Slytherin.”

That’s all it takes, and Harry can feel the heat rise recklessly in his cheeks. If he can wait long enough to ask about her -

“Sorry.” Harry grinds out. “I was - a little tired. Professor.”

“And whose fault is that?” Snape says silkily. “Speaking of which, Mr. Potter, I’m _delighted_ that you brought that up -“

Ah, drat. 

“I have a detention slip here for you to take to Mr. Filch this very night.”

Harry bites his lip, dismayed. He’d already forgotten about that, he did get one last night, didn’t he? Well, he’s not sorry. Hedwig’s got her wing wrapped now, she’s warm and safe - he’s really not sorry at all. 

Ugh, but _Filch._

Harry takes the slip, and tries to slip out quietly before Snape can remember anything else from last night that he really ought to punish Harry for. 

“And Potter?” Snape stops him in his tracks again. 

“Professor?”

“Your dratted bird sneaks away and _devours_ one more of my ruffed grouse hearts and I’m putting a _lid_ on that box she’s in…”

Harry isn't sure whether he is terrified or indignant, but then decides he's neither, and when he turns away again, it's to hide the beginning of a growing, hesitant little grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avid fans might notice I borrowed Ritchie Coote's name from the book - he's mentioned as a beater on the Gryffindor team in HBP; I just put him in a higher year for convenience sake. The Wiggenweld Potion is mentioned in the video game, I guess, which I don't take as cannon and I've never played? But it's apparently a powerful healing potion and made by first-years (the ingredients mentioned are also accurate)...there ya go, nerds! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Professor Binns!” 
> 
> Binns drawls to a stop mid-lecture, wrinkling his forehead at Harry - which looks very, very odd on a ghost. 
> 
> “Yes? You have a question about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911?”
> 
> “Er, no, sir. I was wondering, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott - they’re not in class.”
> 
> “Ah, yes -“ Binns wheezes. “Unfortunate happening; they’ve had an excused absence.”
> 
> “An excused absence?” Harry questions sharply. “What for?” 
> 
> Binns peers at him disapprovingly. “It’s my understanding that one of the boys was escorted to the hospital wing.”

_tell me how to be in this world_

_tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt_

_tell me how, 'cause i believe in something_

_i believe in us..._

 

When Harry walks out of the Potions classroom, he’s thinking so hard about Snape that he doesn’t even notice at first. But when he glances up, mouth already open, expecting to see Blaise and Nott leaning casually against the wall, muttering to each other as usual, they’re just…not there. 

He doesn’t feel anything, no speeding heartbeat, no rush of adrenaline, just blinks at the space where they should be standing, where they always stand, waiting for him in the corridor, and frowns at it. _That’s not right…that’s not…that’s wrong, it’s not supposed to look like that._

Blaise and Theodore aren’t waiting for him. He feels morbidly curious, wonders what it was he did, because they _seemed_ fine with him at the end of Potions. Not back to normal, but that was mostly Harry’s fault, because he didn’t know how to feel about them, or what you did when someone who was - is - your friend, did something like that. How are you supposed to react? Harry doesn’t know, but he obviously did _something_ wrong, because they’re…they’re just _not there_. They said they would be. But they’re not. 

Harry quickens his step as he makes his way to History of Magic. Maybe they went ahead (even though they said they’d wait). Maybe they’ve saved him a seat in History of Magic and they’ll all sit together making fun of Professor Bins (in the most low-key, non-distracting manner, of course) like normal, before this whole disaster happened. 

Except when Harry walks into the History of Magic classroom (what seems like an eon later), they’re not _there_ , either. And that’s when Harry feels the first jolt of foreboding. Maybe this isn’t about _him_. Maybe they’re in danger! 

He wiggles on his seat, raises his hand as high as he can. 

“Professor Binns!” 

Binns drawls to a stop mid-lecture, wrinkling his forehead at Harry - which looks very, very odd on a ghost. 

“Yes? You have a question about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911?”

“Er, no, sir. I was wondering, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott - they’re not in class.”

Blast, if they were skipping out for some reason and Harry called attention to the fact (when Binns would never have noticed otherwise, really) and they got in trouble for it, that wouldn't be a good way to endear himself, would it?

“Ah, yes -“ Binns wheezes. “Unfortunate happening; they’ve had an excused absence.”

“An excused absence?” Harry questions sharply. “What for?” 

Binns peers at him disapprovingly. “It’s my understanding that one of the boys was escorted to the hospital wing.”

Harry shoots up from his chair. “I’ve got to go,”

“I’m unaware of any excused absence on _your_ part - Mr. Potter, isn’t it?” 

Harry mouth twitches unhappily, but he sinks back down into his seat. The rest of this class is going to be _torture_. At least usually he can sneak a nap in or snicker at passing notes with Blaise and Theodore. Now he’s not going to be able to think of anything else. Which one of them had to be escorted to the _Hospital Wing?_ What on earth for? Who would hurt  _Blaise_ or Theodore Nott?

The moment - and maybe even a few seconds before - Binns dismisses class, and everyone rises lethargically to their feet, Harry is out the door and winging it through marbled corridor toward the first floor and the arched double doors of the Hospital wing. 

Hurling himself through them, he stutters to a stop as his eyes drank in the sight. Blaise and Theodore are standing casually next to one of the hospital cots talking to Madame Pomfrey, who hustles over to Harry immediately. 

“Don’t tell me you, too -“

"I'm fine, Madame," Harry feels bad for brushing past her, but he does it anyway, pushing toward Blaise and Theodore until he's right beside them. 

“You’re alright?” Harry breaths. “What happened?”

“’S all good, Harry.” Blaise quirks a sort of sideways smiled at him, though it seems tight around the edges of his lips. “Theodore here just got into a little tiff with Malfoy.” 

Harry scowls. _Of course_ it was Malfoy. “Well, and?” He presses. 

This time, Theodore speaks up, sounding not a little annoyed. “He managed, by no skill of his own, mind you, to hit me with a furunculous jinx.”

“That’s awful!” Harry gasps. Then, a second later, “Er - what exactly does that do?”

“Boils,” Blaise says brightly. “Great, honking ugly boils. Painful, too.”

Theodore glares at Blaise, and Harry shudders. 

“You don’t look bad,” Harry offers to Theodore. 

“An easy fix!” Blaise explains. “There’s a potion gets rids of them. He’s his endearing old haughty self now.”

The boils may have been an easy fix, but whatever started the fight obviously isn’t - and it had to have been something quite inflammatory, because Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Theodore coerced into drawing his wand before. Theodore Nott looks like he’s plotting murder, and honestly, Harry wouldn’t really put it past him.  

“Well,” Harry jests weakly, “at least you got out of History of Magic.”

Blaise’s eyes go wide as he swivels away from Theodore abruptly. “But Harry! What about you and Snape? Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Harry says slowly. “Well, not any new trouble, anyway. My detention’s tonight.” 

Blaise stops, folding his arms. “We were caught with you last night. We should go to detention, too-” 

“No!” Harry protests vehemently. “It was my idea, I was the only reason you were out last night.”

Blaise sighs. “I’ll have treacle tart waiting for you?”

“No, you won’t,” Harry grins. “It’s with Filch, remember? He always manages to keep me late, _you’ll_ be in bed asleep.” 

Blaise purses his lips stubbornly. “I’ll leave it on your bedside table then.”

“You know Malfoy will eat it before I get to it.” 

“Well, I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t I?”

“How?”

“We’re _Slytherins,_ Potter. I’ll figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

“D’you think Theo’s _reading_ that book, or trying to glower it to death with his eyes?” Blaise whispers to Harry. 

Harry snickers. “You could ask him.”

“No thanks!” Blaise shook his head, grinning. “It wouldn’t be the book in danger of death, then!”

Whatever happened with Malfoy, Theodore Nott isn’t able to shrug it off like Blaise has. He’s been irritated - more than usual - and snappish the whole evening, stiff and withdrawn, and they haven’t been able to tease him out of it.

When Blaise starts a pillow fight in the corner of their common room, Harry welcomes it, both as a distraction from his looming detention and as an outlet for his nervous energy.

At the end, he and Blaise are sitting in a pile of fluff as feathers shower down around them, and their shouts of laughter are finally dying down. Nott is reading in a chair, not having been convinced to join them. 

“So,” Blaise turns to Harry. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

For a moment, Harry goes still with surprise, because Blaise says it lightly, but his brown eyes are soft and questioning, and Harry can’t think of what to say.

Nott’s book snaps closed. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Nott says cooly. “We did what needed to be done the other night, Potter, and you know it.”

Harry bristles, pulling himself until he’s sitting up straight. “Is that so?” He says. “You decided that, did you?”

“Well, you weren’t going to decide. Not when you were too busy trying to hold a grudge against the one man who could actually have helped -“

“Ah, yeah, because that’s all adults want to do, _help-_ “

Nott’s eyes hardened. “Snape helped you!“

“Bit of a gamble, though, wasn’t it?” Harry bit out. 

“Of course it was, Potter, _everything_ is, if you don’t take risks, you can’t achieve anything, and you certainly won’t advance beyond all the other safety-hugging cowards-“

“Coward, now!” Harry cries with a sharp laugh. “And what are you, a Gryffindor?”

Not stiffens and Harry sees Blaise wince out of the corner of his eye. 

Theodore’s face has darkened, looking impossibly shadowed. His tone is flat. “I like you, Harry. Don't - don’t cross me.”

“Or what?” Harry says. “You’ll snitch on me to Snape? Oh, _except-“_

Theodore stands abruptly, movements sharp, and Harry realizes in that instant that Theodore’s hand is on his wand. He catches his breath, bracing, he isn’t sure for what. Something dangerous and unknown is swirling around the other boy, and he best be prepared. But Nott rips his hand from his wand, snatches up the book he’d been reading from the chair and stabs it into it’s place on a low bookshelf before whirling and striding from the room. When he leaves the air settles slightly, feeling like they’ve just missed by inches being hit by a devastating thunderstorm. 

Harry’s fists are clenched, and he’s trembling; he can feel his fingers shaking against his palm. 

“He-“ he seethes at the empty doorway, nearly spitting. “He doesn't have the  _right_ to gamble with what isn't his -  _my_ life, with  _Hedwig-_ _”_

Blaise, for once, doesn’t say anything. 

And then, very quietly - “Harry,”

Harry turns on him, nearly says something cutting and unforgivable, but - none of this is Blaise’s fault. Harry deflates, tries to catch his breath, the anger seeping from him slowly, and he can feel an unutterable sort of sadness flood in behind it. 

“Don’t take it too hard, Harry.” Blaise says softly. “Theo’s - not himself. He got a letter from his parents today.”

Harry feels like that should mean something to him, but he doesn’t understand, and he’s _tired_ of not understanding. 

Harry’s right, isn’t he? Getting yelled at, taken things out on, just because someone’s had a bad day - he gets enough of that from the Dursley’s, doesn’t he? It’s not _fair_ that he has to put up with it from his friends, too. 

Then Blaise stands, helps Harry up, leaving a corner of the common room exploded with in white plumage - leaving a mess behind them - as they shuffle into the boy’s dorm.

“Blaise - you, Theodore….you’re the only ones I’ve ever had on my side,” Harry says quietly.

“Leave him be, awhile.” Blaise advises gently. “He’ll come back.”

“I- yeah.” Harry says, not looking at him. Then, he startles. “What time…? I’ve got to get to detention.”

“That’s right,” Blaise gasps. “Go on, then, Harry.” 

At the last minute, just before Harry rushes out the door, Blaise catches him and wraps his arm around him tightly for a long second before he lets go, giving Harry a shrug and a little grin afterward. 

“Good luck with Filch, mate.”

Harry nods. 

He can feel Blaise's hug all the way to Filch’s office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words at the top are song lyrics from "Us", by James Bay. Check it out! :)  
> Comments are <3!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This night, Harry doesn’t know how the man found out (although he’s not surprised, the man’s like the biggest gossip besides a few of the ghosts), but he did. Filch knows. He knows about Hedwig, and he won’t stop talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I can't even tell if this is cohesive anymore. Yay for four hours of sleep and late nights, lol! Here's to hoping this chapter is actually decent when I check it over again in the morning! ^-^

When Harry reports to Filch, he steels his heart with the same kind of dread he uses to face the Dursleys, because at least while he knows the Dursleys say terrible things, they’re mostly bluff and blunder, wind and bluster, will never do half the things they threaten him with. 

Filch is another story. Harry’s heard several stories from Blaise, and a grim confirmation from Nott that the man’s got a pair of dungeon shackles somewhere. Even _Snape_ , who hates him - probably? Still? - has never shown the utterly shameless, child-like _glee_ at the prospect of painful punishment that Filch has. Detentions with him are the absolute worst, as far as Harry’s concerned. The man likes to hover over his shoulders, cackling and whispering while Harry works, making him repeat and re-clean until his detention is twice as long and his hands twice as sore. 

This night, Harry doesn’t know how the man found out (although he’s not surprised, the man’s like the biggest gossip besides a few of the ghosts), but he did. Filch knows. He knows about Hedwig, and he _won’t stop talking._

“Always how it starts,” he says in his hoarse, growly voice. “Starts that way, they get sick, then sicker, then - poof. Gone.” 

He leans closer, breath against Harry’s ear, and Harry’s jaw tightens, muscles stiffened to prevent him from physically pushing the man away.

“That’s alright, though.” Filch wheezes. “I’ve heard the hearts and feathers of such rare owls are hard to come by. Must be useful in dozens of different potions. I’m sure our dear Severus won’t be _too_ disappointed. In fact, I can’t imagine him wanting to wait too long. Owls are such _delicate_ creatures…and their hearts are a delica _cy_ , if you will!” The man lets out a disgusting chortle, then straightens, pushing Harry down from where he’s frozen in his work. 

“Well, boy, go on! Who gave you permission to stop! I’m sure she’s wondering where you are, of course, but don’t worry. She won’t have to suffer for much longer…soon she won’t be wondering anything at all! Ha HA! Her brains will be pickled -“ 

“Shut up!” Harry explodes, jumping forcefully to his feet. “Just shut up, you horrible, miserable man! She may be an animal, but she’s worth ten times more than you!”

Filch’s eyes narrow, watery slits of hate. “Worth it in a _jar_ , all chopped up into little pieces! Just like that owl epidemic we had years ago. Funny, how they all ended up in the office of our most prestigious potions Professor…” 

“You’re lying,” Harry glares, stony and sure. 

“Why would I?” Filch says airily. 

“Because that’s what people like you do,” Harry snaps. 

Filch hisses. “And do you know what filthy little monsters like you do?”

“I don’t care what you think-”

“You do what you’re _told,_ Potter!” Filch shrieked. “And you’ll do what you’re told!” 

Harry may be upset, furious, barely grasping on to his admittedly hot temper - but he’s not an idiot. He seethes at the man - loudly - in his head, seriously considers the possibility of throwing the slosh bucket down and walking out…but he doesn’t. He puts his head down, and he starts scrubbing. 

 

 

It is, as Harry had suspected, long after curfew when he stumbles out of detention, his mind simmering with just one thought. 

He doesn’t believe it, he _doesn’t_ , because why would Snape go to all the trouble - 

But he still walks with hurried footsteps the minute Filch lets him out. He walks, swallows to wet his dry throat, shoulders aching, palming stinging from the rush of blood, fingers sore. Steps lead him purposefully to his Head of House’s office. He curls his hands, wincing at the twinge, and knocks twice. 

He really is far too familiar with the outside of Snape’s door. 

When it opens in a rush of air, the man is standing before him, an expectant glower on his face. 

“Hello, Professor.”

Harry knows actions speak louder than words, then, because the look Snape gives him says _idiot_ more eloquently than the several expanding soliloquies Snape has already seen fit to give on the subject. 

“You’d better have more to say than _that_ , or you are going to be one very sorry little boy. _What do you think you’re doing here?”_

“I’m - um.” He bites his lip. He wasn’t even really aware of making a conscious choice to come here, it just seemed like the next thing, that he needed to _see_ her, to make sure she was alright - but now he’s not sure how to explain it, and he’s absolutely sure Snape is not going to indulge him one more minute than necessary. “I was wondering… if I could see Hedwig.”

 _He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t._ He wouldn’t have let Harry use up his salve on her wing if he was going to use her for potions.

Snape veers closer, looming and swaying over him like some dark hawk of doom. 

“And do you know what time it is, _Potter?”_

Harry barely keep from wincing because, _yeah, that was something he really should have thought about_. He wets his lips. 

“Not a time that decent people go knocking on their Professor’s doors?” Harry guesses. 

“I couldn’t have said it better, myself,” the Professor sneered. 

If it wasn’t beneath him, Harry would stomp his foot like a three-year-old right about now. It isn’t _his_ fault Filch kept him later for detention, and it was _Snape_ who unfairly gave him that detention in the first place, and he isn’t ready to face Theodore Nott or even Blaise back at the dorms and he _just wants to see his owl!_

Feeling helpless is, by far, one of Harry’s least favorite things, and he’d walk away if Hedwig wasn’t involved. But she is, and Harry’s not going to leave her hanging because he can’t swallow his stupid pride. She, least of all, deserves that. 

Besides, Snape’s acting all cagey and suspicious, like he’s got something nefarious planned, and maybe Filch was - but then, Snape always acts like that, anyway, so maybe - 

Harry wishes he weren’t so tired. He wishes his hands weren’t burning and stiff and sore and he wishes Theodore liked him again and he wishes, somewhere very deep, deep down that he shoves back immediately, that Snape never hated him. 

He’s content, most of the time, to be despised and to despise back, to stick close to the few friends he has and set himself against a world that seems to keep determined to keep him off his feet. But tonight, it’s quiet, still in the dungeons, and part of him is screaming that Theodore is leaving, that this is all going to turn out _just like the Dursleys_ , that his people are finally turning on him like they always do (they usually just don't bother with him in the first place, that's the difference), people are not going to want anything to do with him, are going to push him away and punish and scold and dismiss, and that there’s nothing he can do about it. 

He thinks he’s probably overreacting to a boyish tiff - he _knows_ he is, but he can’t seem to stop his mind from spiraling. He can stop himself from giving in to them, though, and Harry’s had enough experience with bullies. He is an expert at not listening to taunts. 

Snape looks at him as if he sees right through Harry, and he probably does, but not a minute later, Harry hears an excited, clacking shriek of greeting. Snape, looking like he’s being bombarded from two sides, twists his mouth into something sour and surly, but he steps aside to let Harry in. 

“I’m taking points for disturbing a teacher after hours and being out after curfew,” Snape informs him, looking down his nose, but Harry isn’t really paying attention to him anymore.

Hedwig is sitting in the comfortable little box he remembers rigging up for her, eyes wide and golden, and she nuzzles into Harry’s hand when he puts it out toward her. 

“There you are,” Harry says to her softly. “See? You’re safe. I knew you were. Filch is a filthy liar!”

His hands are red, scrubbed raw and chaffed tender by the cleaning chemicals Filch had him use, but he brings them up anyway, and pets her placatingly. 

His owl squeaks suspiciously at him, making little whirring sounds as if she’s scolding him for being away for so long. 

It’s pure relief behind his smile when he gives her one, all soft and affectionate around the edges. He doesn’t say anything else, but she seems to grudgingly accept the pets as an apology, and she fluffs her feathers, appeased. 

“I can’t stay long, alright? But you’ll be good as new soon, Hedwig. I promise,” Harry tell her firmly.  “And I’ll see you soon.” 

_I’m not going to leave you alone._

He wants to pour his heart out, like he has before, talk to her with all the trusting candidness he’s been afraid to show to Blaise, wishes he could tell her about how horrible Filch is and how stupid Theodore is being and how he’s _so, so sorry_ about all of it. 

He can’t, not with Snape standing right there, studying him like he’s some sort of bizarre magical species. Besides, this visit is for her. In fact - he glances hesitantly at Snape, then slowly withdraws from his pocket a small, dead, furry rodent. Hagrid had been the right person to ask about a treat for Hedwig, and just happened to have several in supply - he gave Harry one for Hedwig with regards. 

“And no more ruffed grouse hearts,” Harry whispers. 

She chuffs at him, but snatches the rodent up with her sharp beak, and swallows it down looking immensely satisfied with herself. 

Harry rises to his feet, brushing his robes off. Snape is eyeing him oddly, and Harry feels like he’s overstayed what little welcome he - well, he didn’t really have a welcome. But whatever; apparently Harry is the king of forcing himself on people who don’t want anything to do with him. 

“Sorry for disturbing you, Professor,” he says stiffly. 

“Mm, yes, you did,” Snape murmurs absently. “Quite…disturbing…”

“Potter,” he says suddenly, as if snapping out of deep thought. “Your owl needs more wing salve administered again tomorrow, and you are sadly mistaken if you think I’m going to risk losing a limb for that wretched fowl. I won’t have your ridiculous bird flapping haplessly about my office in despair because she’s _pining_ for you.”

Harry’s mind splutters a moment, trying to translate. Is Snape…Snape wants him _back?_ Well, want might be too strong a word, but still - Snape is _inviting_ him to visit Hedwig in his office tomorrow?

“I’m- I’ll be here?” Harry says. 

“See that you are,” Snape says imperiously. "I'd _hate_ to have to assign you more detentions scrubbing my cauldrons."

And then, with all the dignity of someone much too tight and composed for this late at night, the man ushers Harry toward the door. It doesn’t take much; Harry got what he came for. 

 

Harry walks back to the Slytherin rooms, whispers the password, steals noiselessly into the boy’s dorm, his feet quiet and throbbing against his thin trainers. He slips into bed (the other beds are quiet), under absurdly velvet covers, and thinks about a cupboard, so very far away. It’s empty now, some broken crayons and halves of rock-hard bread rolls under the shelves, writing on the wall, that's all that’s left. It's empty and he wonders what the cupboard is without him in it. 

He wonders what he is without it. And he hates that he might, maybe, miss it, just a little bit, right now. Something, anything familiar, would soothe him back together right now, but he can’t think of anything...even the bright-haired, laughing girl of the picture looks like a stranger to him tonight. 

Once upon a time, everything Harry was fit into that cupboard. His Uncle is right (for once, Harry thinks with a pang) - he’s outgrown it, now. 

 It’s quiet, and it’s dark, and Harry is alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3 and will be replied to!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That cold, uncomfortable feeling only grows as the day goes on... the more Severus Snape observes about Harry Potter, the more bothered he becomes. Potter has seemed to curl in on himself, lethargic, then sulky and petulant in turns. Not that the state of Potter's psyche particularly matters to him, but the fact that no one seems inclined to do anything but let the boy stew...
> 
> And of course, of course Potions Class is where it comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I've changed the title. Congratulations, those who were hoping for a "truth's like blood..." sequel! This was pretty much it a soon as it hit over 5,000 words and became more than a short about a sick Hedwig :D This plot just keeps spiraling and getting bigger so I've finally decided to give this fic the credit it deserves. Should only be a few more chapter until the end, though! And I'm sure even after this sequel (for those who were worried), I'll keep adding to this universe. I'm much too attached to stop now :) Hope ya'll enjoy this next installment. I promise, PROMISE there is some serious comfort fluff coming up!  
> Also, my birthday happened, so there's that. Cheers, folks!

Severus Snape simply can’t help himself. 

Observation has been beaten into his blood - literally, when he was young. And then when he was a spy - well, also literally. 

Nobody would dispute the fact that Severus is perceptive. Severus is trained to notice, and he does. The fact that he simply internalizes ninety percent of his observations just makes them even more useful when he finds himself in a position to use them. Which is why it’s odd that it’s Minerva McGonagall, of all people, that has to bring it to his attention. 

“Severus?” Her voice is light, still easily heard over the clatter of the Great Hall at lunch, and she’s frowning, which would send a lesser man into uneasy twitching and immediate attempts to pander. 

Severus raises an eyebrow in reply - not high enough to show undue amount of interest, but just enough. It’s a practiced talent. 

“May I ask what is going on with young Potter?”

_Of course._

Severus mildly takes a bite of his potatoes. “May I ask why you think I have any interest in Potter’s schoolboy dramas?” 

She scowls at him sharply. “I had to separate him from Nott in class today, Severus! I nearly called you in to deal with them.”

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Something - I don’t know, something’s happened between them. What’s next, Potter fighting with _Zabini?_ Don’t think I haven’t noticed that those three were thick as thieves.” Minerva is silent another moment, then takes a stout breath, raises her head for a look out at full tables in the Hall as if shaking a thought off. “It’s probably nothing.” 

A goblet Severus doesn’t even remember picking up clinks in the stretched silence as he sets it down. 

“Why would you care, Minerva? The boy - incredible though it is, I’m not sure I believe it myself - he’s not in your house. You’re not his Head.” Severus can’t help the smirk that forms in his last words.

“He’s my student, though, Severus!” Minerva sounds scandalized. “He’s my student, too, of course I’m concerned!”

Severus purses his lips. “Potter’s owl has been sick.” He offers finally, takes another deliberate bite. “It seems to have… affected him.” 

“Ah, I see. Perhaps that is it.”

“That menace of a child cannot keep from broadcasting his emotions to everyone around him -“

“Oh, hush, Severus,” the woman says shortly. Her mouth softens. “He is very much like James, isn’t he?”

Severus stiffens. 

Minerva’s eyes twinkle for a moment, and all he can think is, _oh for merlin’s sake, not you, too._

“I’ve heard he’s skill on the broom. Any plans for using him next year?” 

“Me?” Severus’ lip curls. “If you think I have any plans with that little wretch beyond assigning him inevitable detentions, you’ll be disappointed. On the contrary, he’s a hazard in the air that I can’t imagine myself tolerating on a sports team.”

“Pity,” Minerva says, watching him with that dratted _amused_ look in her eye. 

“Not at all. Potter has too much of that already.” 

“And I suppose you aren’t sparing any for him.”

“Why in _merlin’s name_ would I, Professor?” Severus says delicately. “You know exactly what I think of attention-seeking little-”

“Sins of the father, Severus,” Minerva brow furrows disapprovingly.  

“So you admit that much about your golden Gryffindor!” 

Minerva’s eyes rolls upward. “Honestly, Severus.” 

Severus rises slowly from his chair. “This has been delightful, but I have things to attend to. Head of House things, you know. Just leave Potter to me, Minerva…after all, it’s hardly worth starting to care about the emotional state of Slytherin students _now_.”

She’s turning a flushed red, rising indignantly from her seat as he walks away, robes a flurry behind him, but Severus has undeniably got the last word. 

It feels like satisfaction, and the aftertaste of plum cake. 

He passes the Slytherin table, still full of students, and glances askance at Potter. Harry Potter is sitting by himself at the end of the table, near, but not a part of, a group of first-years. He’s not paying attention to - well, anything, which makes Severus want to sneer _typical_ , except, it is in fact not. He seems to be quite in his own little world, and he keeps reaching up, almost obsessively, to rub at his creased forehead. Theodore Nott is further down the table - Severus watches him attempt to stab at his food and wonders if Nott realizes the ham was already butchered and has no need for another round - and Zabini is nowhere in sight. 

There is the beginning of something settling, cold and uneasy. Severus doesn't know what it is, but he refuses to accept it, refuses to be involved, to _care._ He's always used his skills of surveillance. He cannot be required to act on them  _now_. 

He can nearly feel his temper turning sour and not even his victory with Minerva is enough of a solace to keep it back.

 

 

 

“That doesn’t go in for another three stirs - no, the other wa- merlin, Potter, you’re as birdbrained as your stupid owl. How do you think it broke it’s wings, anyway? Think the dim thing flew straight into the Astronomy Tower?”

“It might’ve, just to get away from Potter!”

“Bird-icide? I’d commit it, too, if I had to be courier for Potter-“

 _“Stuff it, Malfoy!”_ Hisses Potter’s voice. 

Severus whirls. “Potter! Any more frivolous chattering in class and I’ll take points!”

Predictably, Potter protests. “But I was just-“

“This, just now, counts as frivolous chattering, as well as insubordination, Mr. Potter, so I would choose your next words _very carefully_.”

Potter’s mouth snaps shuts, lips taut from how hard they’re being pressed together. 

Severus turns away, hiding a smirk. My, my, Potter _is_ having a bad day, isn’t he?

Nott sat a calculated two seats behind him in Potions, and Zabini was late, which left Potter a seat next to Draco Malfoy. Sensing the possibilities for explosions, homicide, and a multitude of other mishaps, Severus has been keeping eyes on the two boys. His close monitoring of Potter and Malfoy has forced him to drastically cut down on the amount of vitriol he is able to hand out to the Gryffindor side, which makes him turn to his own students an an outlet for his ire. It’s not like they don’t deserve it; Draco’s a scheming scoundrel (merlin, if only he could think that without his mouth twitching upward), Potter’s screaming for attention with his pathetic brooding act, and Crabbe is just plain stupid (Severus takes five points from Slytherin). 

So far, Draco has sabotaged Potter’s potions twice, and Potter can’t even be decent enough to work up a rage over it- obviously, brooding is taking _all_ of his energy and most of his already minuscule amount of brainpower. 

“ _Psst_ , Goyle! What do you think would happen if we fed this potion to Potter’s owl?”

“I dunno Draco, maybe we should find out.”

“Do you think it’s pure bad luck or some kind of curse that everyone who gets close to Potter seems to die off?”

Potter’s face goes very, very pale, and then starts to _glow_ red. 

As much as Severus wants to sit back and enjoy the show, there is classroom order to maintain. 

“Draco!” He barks, into the boy’s space within a few quick steps. His voice goes low and velvety. “Need I remind you of the rules, as well?”

Draco slumps a little, gives him a sulky looks, but quiets. Severus glances at Potter. The boy shows no reaction. 

Malfoy and Potter may be taken care of (Severus ignores that the taunting, one-sided whispers start up again near the end of class), but by the time Potions is over, two Gryffindor students are sent to the Hospital Wing as a result of being left to their own idiocy most of class time, and Severus Snape regrets ever accepting the job of Potions Master. 

Severus is finally, _finally_ walking away, when he hears a scuffle behind him. This is _it._ See if he lets that menace of a child in his office ever again, because merlin’s beard if it is Potter _again -_ he turns. 

Potter is sprawled out on the floor, the dolt, obviously after having tripped over something in the corridor. 

A ring of students has scattered to make way, but Draco is stepping forward, mouth opening in a sneer. “Aw, are you alright, witty Potter? Need _Mummy_ to kiss it better? Or, no _-_ ”

Potter’s on his feet and lunging within seconds, fist pulled back and heading for Draco’s nose.

Severus has whirled his wand out and locked them both in the jinx before they have a chance. His aim is on-point, as always. _“Impedimenta!”_  

Moments later he is between them, as the hex slowly lets them go. Potter shakes himself, looking a little confused as to why his fist is not currently planted in Draco’s nose. 

Draco’s face is flushed, not a good look on him, so visibly enraged he’s _spitting_ his words. 

“Why, you measley little - how _dare_ you - my _father_ -“

“I do believe that’s enough, Draco,” Severus says coldly. He turns, narrowing his eyes on the other child. “You may leave _Potter_ to me.”

Potter’s tie is askew, his robe mussed, and his mouth is tight around the edges, but he’s still, so very, very still, as he watches Severus sends Draco off. He grips the boy by one bony shoulder and propels him away from their larger audience. Once they’re off on their own, in a quiet, forsaken hallway, Severus lets go, shoves the boy into the wall a bit. 

“Should I dare to ask what might have been going through whatever incredibly thick organ you possess that passes itself off as a brain?” 

Potter takes a moment, looking like he’s trying to suss the question out. 

Severus can feel his lips pulling back, teeth bared. _“_ You stupid, stupid little boy!” 

Potter draws himself up, still plastered with his back to the stone. “Of course it’s _my_ fault-” he starts bitterly. 

Severus pushes away from him, disgusted, and spins so the back of his black robes are to the boy. “I should - I should take points - detention for a week, at least - muggle fighting in the hallways-” 

“Do it all,” Potter says, all fury and remnants of a defiance that Severus hasn’t heard from him in weeks. “Do all of it! I don’t care.” 

“I _should-”_ Severus clenches his jaw. What a _day._

“I’ll still - will I see Hedwig today? You _said -_ you said.” 

Severus feels something in him clench tight. Oh, this tiny child and his wounded eyes, handing Severus the weapons for his own demise. 

Severus turns slowly. “How about _I say_ when I am able to abide the sight of your face again,” he says softly. “And trust me, Potter, it’s not going to be before tomorrow’s Potions Class.” 

The boy jerks back as if he’s been struck, face paling.

“ _Go_ , Potter.” Severus says. “Go!” 

For once, the boy does as he is told. 

 

Severus thought the quiet and sanctuary of his office might help him recover from the day, but it feels empty and strange. No - it’s nearly always empty. What’s strange is that it feels like it _shouldn’t_ be. He sits down at his desk, only to be immediately assaulted by Potter’s unimpressed owl. 

“You’re no better than Potter, even if you do have twice his brains,” Severus glowers, slumping in his chair. He sets a stack of papers down hard, just to watch them flutter. 

Amber eyes narrow.

“And no wing salve for you tonight,” Severus adds spitefully. “You’ve only yourself and your your wretched little boyfriend to blame for that!”

The animal lets out a harsh, disapproving cry and Severus glares at it some more. 

There are a lot of reasons he’s never owned an owl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are <3 and will be replied to!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time it happens, it's the middle of the night, and he's been called up by Dumbledore for some-reason-or-another, it may be important, or it may be the discovery of some profound new spell that transforms hard candies; it’s one of those nights. It's the middle of one of those nights, and Severus Snape is in no mood to be genial, so when he opens his door only to trip on an unknown object scooted right up beside it, he legitimately growls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really like my last chapter so I decided I was going to make up for it by posting two in one week...enjoy!

 

_nobody said it was easy_

_it’s such a shame for us to part_

_nobody said it was easy_

_no one ever said it would be this hard_

_oh take me back to the start_

 

Harry goes to bed feeling miserable, and it doesn’t get any better from there. 

He wakes up and can’t breathe right, props himself up without even thinking, and sniffles a little to clear his nose - and freezes. 

He should have expected it, but with everything happening yesterday (Malfoy, Snape - _Nott)_ , he hadn’t really been paying attention to the way his head had started to throb around the edges of his thoughts, the way his breath seemed to get caught in his chest just a little more than normal, a tenderness to his throat.

_No, not that, not now - not that._

His mind is there before he can stop it, shoved away in the cupboard, always dusty and cob-webbed, not matter how many times he tries to clean it out best as he can, just makes it worse, so much harder to breathe when it’s hot and stuffy and only the vent for air and _all day_ with nothing to do and no more water than usual and miserable, wanting arms, touch, some hand across his forehead so _much_ it _hurts_ , the absence of it like something sharp in his belly, curled into himself with snot all over his face but no tears, not yet, does it matter, they won’t hear him anyways. 

Sometimes Harry thinks it would be better if the Dursleys did beat him. Better than _this._ He can do stuff normally, but when he’s like this? The disgust and revulsion, the annoyance on Aunt Petunia’s face… Harry can _see_ it the moment she notices, she curls her lip, utters threats about staying away from Dudley and not passing on his virus, and then getting shoved away in the dark (Harry likes it, sometimes, the dark, but not now when he wants big blankets and soft light and gentle voices more than anything in the whole world). 

He can’t breathe. 

His fingers spasm around the silky coverlet, trying to ground his mind, _not the Dursleys, obviously_ not the Dursleys, and the anxiety eases a bit. Alright. 

He can feel a little more equilibrium seep into his brain, balance him out, and after it does, he does his very best not to die of embarrassment, because he can’t believe the mini-meltdown he’s just had over a _cold._ It’s not like people at Hogwarts are gonna lock him away because he’s sick and useless…not that he’s going to test them on that, because he’s not going to be useless today. It’s just a cold. He’ll just do everything like normal, and it’ll go away. 

Yep. Ignoring is going to be the best course of action, Harry decides. So he pulls himself up, struggles half-heartedly into his school robes, and trudges down to the Great Hall. It’s mid-breakfast (he slept later than he thought), and Harry sidles onto the end of the Slytherin table and harshly shoves away the memories that try to force themselves to the fore, the way the silence yesterday sounded like his world ending. 

He loses his appetite mostly when he’s sick - he’s always been grateful for that at the Dursleys, but now he feels guilty nibbling on the scone, half of an orange slice, unable to finish when his stomach starts churning at him. 

Knowing his limits and not wanting to push them, Harry sets the half-eaten goods back down and sits unobtrusively as he tries to absorb just how badly he ruined things yesterday. 

He can’t decide whether Nott’s blind eye, Malfoy’s constant cracks about his parents (picking on Harry was expected, picking on Hedwig nasty but not unexpected, but his parents? Not on, and Malfoy _knows_ it, knows how to get to him faster than anything else) or Snape’s snarled, _“how about I say when I’m able to abide the sight of your face again,”_ tops for worst feeling of yesterday. 

“Harry,” a hand lights on his shoulder and Harry startles a little, but only because he _really_ wasn’t expecting to be touched. 

The warm body slides in beside him.

“Blaise!” Harry says. “I, erm. I thought.”

“What, not happy to see me?” Blaise says, lips quirked up. “You thought what?”

“Never mind,” Harry says quickly. “I was wrong, obviously. I.”

Blaise props both elbows on the table, studies him a moment. “You ‘kay, Harry?” 

“Of course, yeah.” Harry says. The _last_ thing he needs is Blaise’s scrutiny. 

Concern shadows Blaise’s face a moment. “Yesterday - you didn’t think, because I didn’t - I wasn’t staying away from you on _purpose_ , Harry, you know that. Right?” 

Harry conjures up what he hopes is a reassuring smile, because, well, that’s exactly what he thought. What was he _supposed_ to think?  “No, I know.”

“Good.” Blaise flashes him a quick, sunny smile, and starts piling his plate. “Are you gonna eat?”

“I just finished, actually.” 

Harry thinks it’s a little awkward, but maybe it’s just him, feeling a little awkward, because Blaise is friends with Harry and Nott, but Nott doesn’t care about Harry now, and Harry just feels like his cement foundation has suddenly turned into something tentative and glass-fragile. 

Harry’s barely able to rouse himself during Defense class, he’s exhausted (whatever, he got plenty of sleep last night, so why isn’t his stupid body working with him?) but he tries _so hard_ , so he doesn’t know why Blaise keeps shooting him these little undercover looks when he thinks Harry doesn’t know.  If Blaise is worried that he’s sick, then why isn’t he distancing himself, like yesterday? Except, Blaise had said that wasn’t on purpose and it hurts to try and _think_. 

Professor McGonagall announces at breakfast that Potions class is pushed to Monday because of a special Herbology presentation with some plant that only blooms once a year and it’s today, which is perfectly, perfectly fine with Harry. If he can just get through today, if he can push hard and press through it, he’ll be good. He really will. He can rest tonight, go to bed early, it’s almost the weekend and there’s no classes then. He’ll be _fine._

 

* * *

 

The first time it happens, it's the middle of the night, and he's been called up by Dumbledore for some-reason-or-another, it may be important, or it may be the discovery of some profound new spell that transforms hard candies; it’s one of _those_ nights. It's the _middle_ of one of those nights, and Severus Snape is in no mood to be genial, so when he opens his door only to trip on an unknown object scooted right up beside it, he legitimately growls. 

_"Bloody-"_

He thinks for a moment it's Mrs. Norris, but one solid glance at the object makes him realize it most certainly isn't. It's too large to be a cat, not quite square enough to be a package, draped over in a black cloak like some sort of…with Slytherin green lining….and a head of dark, mussy hair sticking out the top- 

"Potter." Always the boy, turning up everywhere he’s not welcome, everywhere he isn’t supposed to be. Severus glares at the lump. “Potter!”

He’s just drawn out his wand to wake the little troublemaker with a stinging hex when he glances down and finds bleary, wide green eyes blinking at him. 

“H’llo, Professor." Potter's voice slurs sleepily. "What're you doin' here?"

"The question is to the contrary," Severus says, all ice and ire. "What are _you_ doing here?"

The boy blinks at him, unimpressed. “I’m sleeping - or, I w’s,” Potter peers at him in the semi-darkness, then scrunches his nose a bit. "You woke me up."

"My deepest apologies," Severus says, in a tone that's about the farthest thing from apologetic he can get. 

The boy bolts up, suddenly, his hands fumbling around on the ground. “S’it Hedwig? Is she alright?"

"Not everything is about your _bloody bird_ , Potter!" Severus hisses. "Tell me what you thought you were doing laying in wait for me outside my office door!"

Scuffling, the boy rises wearily to his feet and squints at him, like Severus is some foggy apparition (there are some of those around, but none that Severus would take kindly to being mistaken for). 

"Think I already answered that," Potter mumbles. 

"And it was far from an adequate answer, Potter!"

"Well, you didn't want me knocking, _sir!"_

“And you decided _camping_ outside my office was a better idea?” Snape demands lowly. 

But then, he thinks, this is Potter. Potter, so disgustingly earnest, Potter, who has made a few frustrated or forced apologies, but almost _never_ begged, who pleaded for his owl. Potter, _seeking Severus out_ after curfew that one night (honestly, what did the boy expect him to do?), with tired, determined eyes and his hands stripped and inflamed by chemicals, and his quiet _“I was just wondering if I could see her,”_ like Severus might _actually let him_. 

Of course, he had let Potter in. But mostly because he knew, even after such a short time, that the fowl would become completely insufferable (more than she already was) if denied the precious company of her - well, whatever Potter is to her. Furthermore, the boy is the only one who seems to be able to wrangle the bloody thing into any kind of mildly tolerable personality. Severus need not waste a minute submitting himself to such a scrutiny when he can just foist her off on an all-too-willing Potter. 

The boy looks wary now, though, if still not completely cognizant. 

“Sorry,” Potter says, and _that’s_ when Severus takes a closer look at him, because since when does Harry Potter apologize to Severus Snape for inconveniencing him? In fact, Potter looks much, much too relaxed for being around Severus. He hadn’t even realized how tensely Potter held himself still around Severus until now, when he seems to have lost the edge of it. He looks muddled and cautious but…shockingly amiable. 

“Potter, are you quite fine?” Severus wrinkles his nose, gaze tapering. 

“Look, I know you don’t want to see me-” Harry starts, and Severus mutters, “wherever did you get that idea?”

“- but if you just let me have a look at her, make sure she’s okay…did she…did she get her salve yesterday night?”

“I certainly wasn’t going to apply it myself,” Severus snorts. 

Harry slumps, and Severus can nearly see the guilt set down heavy on his shoulders, much too much guilt for one eleven-year-old child, no matter how much Severus despises him. Or…Severus doesn’t really find himself despising Harry Potter just now; he’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s rather a new thing. 

“One day without the salve reapplied will not kill it, Potter,” Severus says. “The salve merely speeds the healing process, without it, it simply takes a longer, more natural time to heal.”

“But I could _help_ ,” Potter says. “I could’ve-my faul’, I shoulda-“

Merlin, is Potter slurring his words? Exactly how long does it take him to actually wake up and be reasonably alert?

“Potter!” Severus says sharply. 

Potter cocks his head a little, eyes wide. 

“C’n I go see her now?” He asks, all obnoxiously hopeful.

Ugh. Dealing with Potter in the middle of the bloody night is _not_ in his job description. 

Or, well, it is. But it _shouldn't_ be. Because the bloody boy shouldn't very well be up in the middle of the night bothering him with his ridiculous face. Or sleeping tucked up tight outside his door just waiting to be tripped on. 

“You, Potter, are going nowhere except to bed.”  

“Oh.” Potter says.

For merlin’s sake, the boy looks like a forlorn puppy. 

Severus never has liked dogs. 

 _“Now,”_ Severus elaborates, since the boy seems to need it. 

“‘M going,” Potter mumbles. He’s halfway down the hall, Severus watching him go, before he turns. “But if I come back - tomorrow - if I’m - can I -“

“ _Fine_ , Potter, yes, for merlin’s sake, just go to bed!” 

“Okay,” the boy says hoarsely. “Yeah. Thanks, Pr’fessor.”

It’s only after the boy’s really gone that Severus realizes he’s committed to having Potter bother him _again_ tomorrow, on his weekend…the things Severus does for Dumbledore. And Potter…Potter bears some scrutiny. He’s been acting up lately, but this was…quite unlike the boy; not a shred of defiance around him, all sleepy and compliant, and Severus is - well. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a sharp eye on the boy, is all.

Severus sighs and readies himself to face the Headmaster. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are luuuurv <3  
> Words at the beginning are taken from the song The Scientist by Coldplay ^-^


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he next wakes up, it’s because the dorm room door is hooking closed with a loud smack, and Harry groans, pulls the blanket from his head a little. He thinks it's Blaise, of course, because who else would it be?
> 
> He’s not really prepared to see Theodore Nott’s face staring over at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, I promised fluff...I'm not really sure I can write actually write it? So, y'know, let me know how it is ^-^

_Oh when the winds they blow_

_you’re gonna need somebody to know you_

_oh when the leaves they fall_

_you’re gonna need somebody to call you_

_you’re gonna need somebody’s arms to craw into_

 

Harry is laying underneath his bed. At first, he thinks it’s a dream that wakes him up. He wakes with a start, curling into himself against some psychogenic threat. It’s dusty and dim and he can hear himself breathing, voice hoarse and gone all ragged around the edges. He’s not even really sure why he’s here or how he got here; he didn’t even know there _was_ an underneath the bed yesterday, and now he’s hiding under it like some _little kid._

His cold has definitely progressed from yesterday, and Harry is getting a rude remembrance of just how miserable a little cold can be. It’s childish to wish for his ratty old blanket from the Dursleys, but Harry wants it, and he doesn’t have it, and if he just had something, anything, to nestle into, something to hug into his chest or cuddle up against, he might be able to talk himself out wanting it to be a warm human body. 

Harry is laying underneath the bed, and wondering when he started believing that a cramped, lightless space full of forgotten things is where he _belonged_. 

The sad thing is, he actually thought there might have been a place for him here. If he hadn’t messed everything up. He tried at the Dursleys, but he’d always thought the odds were set against him from the start, crying unfair because he’d never had a chance. He’d always thought that maybe, if he did meet anyone who took him on his own merits, he’d…well. They gave him more than a chance here. Blaise, Theodore…and he’s _still_ here, crawling in the dark, pathetic and alone like always and this time he doesn’t have anyone else to blame. 

Harry is laying underneath his bed, definitely not feeling sorry for himself. 

He’s laying there trying to work up enough motivation to pull himself up, and get some food. After all, it’s there, in the Great Hall, no sense in wasting it, and the thought of getting food even though he’s sick - _good_ food, makes a little thrill go through him. He can’t waste it. Besides, feed a cold, starve a fever right? Well, he’s not running a fever - not yet, anyway, he thinks. Even if his head is far more fuzzy than he’s comfortable with and pounding with a steady, heavy pulsing hammer. 

He’s halfway to the Great Hall and has to keep from springing away in panic (he’s more jittery when he’s like this, reflexes less controllable and set on a hair-trigger) when Blaise springs up beside him, twirling his wand a little like they’ve been sternly forbidden to do because _wands aren’t toys_ and flinging one around could cause _serious accidents_ and it should _only be used for classes and practice._

“Hey Harry,” Blaise swings his arms, says it in that easy way he has, like he isn’t observant and thoughtful and catches ten times more with those eyes than people think he does. “You look…are you sick?”

“No.” Harry denies aggressively, the words pulling at his hoarse throat. He brings his body to a stand still in an effort to keep from running. “No! Why would you think that!”

There’s a gentle look in Blaise’s eyes that bellies his laid-back laugh. “Easy, mate! No one’s trying to accuse you of anything. Just thought - well, there’s this chicken soup I can get from the kitchens, and it’s pretty much the best thing ever.”

Harry relaxes a little from pure confusion. “Chicken soup?”

“Yep,” Blaise pops the ‘p’ at the end. “It’ll be loads better than any of this rich stuff they’re setting out n the Great Hall. If you go back to the dorms, I’ll bring you some. Mkay?”

Blaise doesn’t give Harry time to say no, so he doesn’t. Harry isn’t sure he’d be up to fighting it, anyway. He’s just so _tired_ , achy even, and actually moving sounds like the last thing he wants to do right now. Yes. Yep. Bed. Bed sounds really, really good. He’s going to bed and Blaise… is bringing him soup. He’s not sure if that’s just one of Blaise’s weird things, or if he should be worried, or _why_ Blaise feel the need to feed him chicken soup or if it’s only a friends thing like the treacle tart, and he’s just _very confused_ and he can’t ask Nott, because Nott…

But he does it. Sort of. Blaise insists on walking him back to the dorm, which Harry can’t decide if he loves (it’s…actually sort of thoughtful) or hates (he feels like a supervised baby), and finally decides is just completely awkward, but the world is a bit blurry and he can’t focus right, so he lets it go. A cough rips out of his chest and sets on of his lungs on fire, but it doesn’t linger to the point where he’s struggling for breath. He crawls into bed and Blaise looks at him and lets out a little self-satisfied noise.

“I’ll tell Professor Snape or Madame Pomfrey, and we can get you a cold potion that should shape you right u-“

“No!” Harry sputters, shooting up from his nest of blankets looking probably more alarmed than he means to. “ _Please_ , Blaise, no, you can’t - you can’t tell them, don’t, I promise, please.”

Blaise throws up his hands. “Alright, alright, mate! Calm down. I won’t go to them, then.”

Harry calms a little, collapses back down. He feels drained, exhausted, even though he’s hardly moved and it’s only half nine in the morning. He barely awake as Blaise tells him, “You’re not getting away from the chicken soup, though,” and whisks away to wherever you go in Hogwarts to get soup. 

When he next wakes up, it’s because the dorm room door is hooking closed with a loud smack, and Harry groans, pulls the blanket from his head a little, thinks _Blaise._

He’s not really prepared to see Theodore Nott’s face staring at him from the next bed over, the other boy leaning gracefully against the bedpost. 

Groggy, Harry scrambles up against the headboard, drawing his blankets around him as if they can defend him. _Where’s my wand, where’s - where ’s it -_ he thinks frantically, although he doesn’t really think Nott would attack him, not that way. Theodore’s never actually raised a wand against him. 

Harry slumps in to his pillows, peering with half-lidded eyes at the other boy, who seems to be doing…well, nothing, except looking sharply at Harry, as if sizing him up for something. Well, whatever Nott wants from him, he’s bound to be disappointed. 

“Whattya want?” Harry mumbles, tries to make it sound sinister, but it just comes out sounding bleak. 

Not narrows his eyes even more. “Blaise Zabini came to me asking if I’d _steal_ a certain potion from the Hospital Wing.”

Harry wishes he could pull the covers back over his head. 

His jaw shifts. “Oh,” he croaks. 

Blast it, Blaise. Of course he’d try find a way around Harry’s strictures. 

“You didn’t, did you?” 

“Of course not.” Nott says. 

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know what he wanted it for, he certainly isn’t sick, and he refused to tell me - apologetically, of course. So, I had to come find out for myself.” 

“Well, now you know.” Harry rasps.

“Quite,” Nott says stiffly. “You’re sick as a dog, Potter.”

“I’m not-!” Harry protests, but the other boy cuts him off with the most unimpressed stare Harry’s ever been a recipient of, which is pretty impressive since Harry’s gotten that exact same one from _Snape_. He wants to keep denying it, but Nott is all blank in that way he is when he’s being snooty and smug and he does _know_ things, blast him. 

“We talked about lying.” Nott says.

Harry breaks off, pressing his lips together stubbornly, not admitting that the other boy is right. 

“But it’s not…it’s not bad. Not bad enough anyone has to _do_ anything about it. ” Harry swallows, shifts his legs against his chest and fists his hands into the blanket.

Something wry and amused flashes across Theodore’s face for a minute. “Chicken soup?” He asks, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Blaise is - he’s bringing some,” Harry says awkwardly. “I’m not, I don’t really know why.”

Theodore is studying him again, less hostile this time, the kind of softer, more appraising look Harry hasn’t seen since before their fight. Theodore’s lips are thinning out, but not in the way he does when he’s annoyed, more like when he’s…displeased. Or worried, but Harry’s only ever seen him worried once, so he’s not very good at identifying that expression. He looks away from Harry for a minute, and Harry can feel himself start to drift, fights to keep his eyes open, even if only a little, because he can’t risk falling asleep, not with Nott still in the room.

“He’s mothering you,” Nott says out of the blue, and Harry startles. 

“Sorry?” Harry says. 

“Zabini is _mothering_ you. Because you’re sick.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry shifts his legs again, even though it forces him to take a more vulnerable position. 

“Chicken soup in bed is what his mother gives him when he’s sick. He’s doing it for you because he thinks it will help.”

Harry thinks for a moment. “Will it?”

Theodore shrugs, sharp eyes running over Harry again.

Harry lets the words fade into silence while his mind tries to compute. Chicken soup…because he’s sick. He tries to force the two things together, and it feels awkward in his mind, like they don’t belong. Who knew that was a thing? Is that what parents do?

Although, the Dursleys haven’t specifically done that for Dudley. Not chicken soup, just…whatever he wants. Usually ice cream, and a lot of other things that Harry would fantasize about. The first time he can remember getting sick, nose dripping and voice hoarse, he was three or four. He was excited because he thought they might - _might_ let him have ice cream. 

He’d been wrong, of course. Harry doesn’t get what normal children get, he gets something _very different_ when he’s sick. 

The next time he was sick, he was at school when one of his teachers finally realized, and offered to send him home with a sick note. Harry had accepted. 

He tore the note into tiny pieces with numb fingers as he made his way to his next class.

Harry feels the shiver down to his toes, lets him mind go sweetly blank as he burrows his shoulders beneath the duvet again, _just for a minute…_

He thinks he hears Blaise’s voice, thinks he smells something warm and soothing and salty, lets himself accept that for some reason he’s not sure whether to believe yet or not, he’s not alone. 

 

The next time Nott comes sauntering back into the deserted dorm, Harry blinks at him.

“You’re not Blaise.”

“No, Potter, I’m not,” Theodore says. “Where are your socks?”

“Socks.” Harry says stupidly. 

He thinks automatically of Dudley and his gang, of people taking what they want from him with an ease like it’s owed them, like it’s granted, just because they can and he doesn’t have much (nothing’s actually _his,_ according to his aunt and uncle).

Then he thinks of what his only pair of socks left looks like, and has to force down a snort at the idea that anyone would actually want to get near enough to them to do that…even if it was to be able to take something from Harry. There’s gotta be limits, right? Anyways, he’s been skeptical a long time about just how much enjoyment somebody could possibly derive from watching him as they deprived of him of things, but there must be something to it…

Well, even _Harry_ doesn’t want Harry’s socks at this point, so he gives up trying to figure it out, and says, “They’re inside my shoes, by my trunk.”

Theodore goes to get them, and when he brings them up, they’re hanging off his small pinky, touching as little of his skin as possible. 

“These are disgusting,” Theodore informs him, his face expressing much stronger version of the same sentiment, somewhere between horror and pure revulsion. 

Harry shrugs. What’s he supposed to do, apologize for having only nasty, holey socks for the other boy to steal?

“You don’t mind if I just - throw these away. Or no, you know what, I wouldn’t disgrace a garbage with their presence. I could throw them in the lake? I don’t want to be on the octopus’ bad side. If I could do a banishment spell…

Harry rolls his eyes. “They’re not _that_ bad,” he grumbles. 

Theodore gives him a look. “Potter, they really, really are.”

And then Theodore sighs, says, “you’ve forced my hand, then,” and Harry feels something tighten in the pit of his stomach, because nothing good ever comes after those words. 

This is Hogwarts, though, and it manages to keep surprising him, so Harry tries to hold his bewilderment off when Theodore just slips over to his own drawers in the wardrobe, brings out a pair of thick, sleek black socks with Slytherin green trim at the top, and they look - oh, they look so, so warm. 

Theodore stops beside him, holding them out dangling in his hand. 

“Well I certainly hope you’re not planning on having me _put them on you_.” Theodore says.

“I’m - you’re - I can’t wear your socks!” Harry blinks, thinking he should be able to explain, but it’s such an unexpected thing to happen that he’s not even sure how. 

“Why not?” Theodore stiffens incrementally, drawn back the offer by crossing his arms.

Harry’s mouth opens and closes. He can’t imagine - how can he explain - why would he _need_ to -

“I’m. Well. I’ll get them dirty, or stretch them out, or…something. I’m - trust me, you don’t want me wearing your good clothes.”

Theodore’s lips twitch tightly in his usual tell for annoyance. “You’re sick, Potter. Which means you don’t get to be in charge, and you don’t get to have cold feet.”

Harry blinks again, frowns. “That’s not how it works where I come from,” Harry says. It sounds like a challenge, but it’s not, he’s just - just trying to be honest, just trying to understand.

“Well, that’s how it works here.”

Theodore thrusts the socks at him, and Harry isn’t brave enough to deny him twice. 

He takes them, pulls them reverently over his frozen toes and up his scrawny calves. They barely stay up, but the elastic threading at the top helps. It’s like putting his feet into a special _foot blanket_ , and Harry has an absurd though that _this_ is why people wear socks, they’re actually meant to keep your feet warm, and how weird is that? 

He thinks he might close his eyes in bliss for a moment, because next they’re snapping open to Theodore’s snort. 

Harry tries to glare at him half-heartedly. He’s not sure he succeeds. 

“There’s pumpkin juice,” Theodore’s motions seem strained as he gestures to a full goblet on Harry’s nightstand. 

“Right,” Harry says dubiously. He wonders if Theodore gets that from his parents, the way Blaise picked up chicken soup from his. He doesn't ask.

Theodore sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed and looks up at him, catching his eye. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He says stiffly. 

Ah, yeah, this…whatever this is, it's bothering Nott since he first saw Harry this morning. 

“Why didn’t I tell you what?” Harry says, a little nervously. 

“Blaise says you nearly dropped on your way to the Great Hall,” Nott snaps back, agitated fingers running up and down the smooth cut of his trousers. 

Harry blushes deeply. “I could have made it on my own fine! I’m not _weak!”_

And Theodore goes still, gaze searching Harry’s. 

“I’m not - I didn’t say that,” he says calmly. “Harry, you didn’t even tell _Blaise_ you were sick. What did you think he was going to do, smother you to death with _niceness?”_

Theodore breaks off, leans forward intensely as if he _needs_ to know. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?”  

Harry’s hands form little frustrated fists. He snorts, avoiding Nott’s gaze, wonders why it _matters_ so much. “I - would you have _cared?”_

Theodore lets out his own huff of disbelief, is about to respond when the door opens again. 

Harry’s never had so many people want to see him when he was sick before - he’s never had so many people want to visit him for any reason, before he came to Hogwarts.

“It’s perfect,” Blaise proclaims, a note of triumph in his voice as he sets down a bowl with a flourish, and then adds a spoon. “I present, for your consumptive pleasure…”

“…Chicken soup,” Harry breathes. 

It's sacred, for a moment, the bowl steaming and smelling the room up with incredible scents, and the boys sitting there, grinning at each other. Blaise has found a spot on the bed beside the Theodore, and he raises an eyebrow at the both of them. 

“You two dummies finally made up?”

“I guess we have,” Theodore says, unruffled, giving Harry an even look. Harry feels a bit of cold shock flowing through him, but then immediately after, he thinks, _if that’s good enough for Theodore, it’s good enough for me._

“ _Finally_ is a little dramatic though, Blaise,” Nott sighs. “It’s only been a few days.”

“A few days too long for every other person in this castle,” Blaise rolls his eyes. 

Theodore looks at Blaise, quirks a half smile. “And you didn’t even bring _me_ chicken soup.”

Blaise waves a hand. “It’s for the invalid, you greedy wombat.”

“‘M not an invalid,” Harry grumbles. 

“I - erm. I hope the soup is alright.” Blaise looks casual, but his fingers are dragging against his sleeve the way they do when he’s nervous, and he bites his lip a little as he says reluctantly, “I couldn’t find the right kind of tea, there’s this herbal tea I always have -“

Harry can feel his face softening, says hesitantly, “You don’t have to do this, Blaise. You don’t need to-”

“Hush up, Harry,” Blaise says promptly, flicking a finger at him. 

“Yes, do,” Nott agrees, and Harry remembers how unbearably arrogant he can be when he’s not awkwardly trying to apologize. “You sound so much more intelligent that way.”

 

By the time Blaise has forced two bowls of chicken soup and a full goblet of pumpkin juice down Harry’s gullet Harry feels…actually, enormously better. His throat is soothed, his head is - well, not great, but definitely clearer. His chest still hurts a little, his sinuses still seem to be pulsing to their own beat, and he will definitely not want to be far from a hankie over the next few days, but…he feels. Good. Relaxed. It’s better than he’s felt in days, and it’s a strange feeling to have when he’s sick. It’s late afternoon before Blaise informs Harry and Theodore, with no little amount of disgust, that Malfoy and company are on their way to the boys' dorm to look at some of Malfoy’s quidditch books. Harry, who is groaning at the very thought of having to face Malfoy like this, suggests they retire to the library. 

Blaise agrees, but insists on bringing enough blankets and pillows to make a small blanket fort model of Hogwarts. Theodore doesn’t say anything, but when Hary pulls himself up, feeling unaccountably weak and slightly wobbly, he holds his hand out to Harry.

Harry wonders for a moment if they've really made up, if it could possibly be so simple; the dark haired boy at his side is Theodore again, though, and Harry's not really sure when or how it happened, but... _I guess we have._

He looks at Theodore's extended hand, and after a moment, Harry reaches out his own and takes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lurv! <3  
> Lyrics at the beginning are from "Somebody's Love" by Passenger


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I’ve got this, don’t worry.” Harry reassures them earnestly. “I’ve been sick lots of times around adults, they hardly ever notice.”  
> Blaise' face plainly doubts his brilliant plan. “Yeah, well, Professor Snape isn’t really the type to not notice things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, long time no talk! BUT I am on vaCAtion, and guess what I had time to work on? Only two chapters to go - still planning on finishing before the end of the year!

_i’m just young enough to still believe, still believe_

but young enough not to know what to believe in

 

 

_Dark corridor, warm, waiting, a flicker of torchlight, that intoxicating rush of feeling safe but on the edge of danger at the same time, everything out of focus and soft, feeling like he was floating. Nothing could touch him. Not even Snape, towering over him, he’s not sure why Snape is there, but the man always seems to show up where he’s least wanted, always has his long hooked nose in Harry’s doings, and Harry doesn’t mind right now, Snape’s not the one who’s important right now…”’Sit Hedwig?” “Not everything is about your bloody bird, Potter.”_

_“You are going nowhere except to bed.” “If I come back tomorrow - can I -“ “Fine, yes, for merlin’s sake-“_

“Harry? Harry -“ 

Someone’s shaking him, but he ignores them, because this is much, much more important, why didn’t he remember this? How could he only be thinking of this now? He’s supposed to - great gadding gobbers, he’s supposed to be at _Snape’s_ this afternoon. He nearly - he nearly didn’t remember. He - oh. He slept in front of Snape’s door last night. Snape caught him _sleeping outside Snape’s door last night_. 

He doesn’t really remember why, just remembers it being somehow very logical at the time when he woke up, blinded with terror in the middle of the night, thinking of Hedwig, wanting to reach for his bird who wasn’t there. She was at Snape’s. So, to Snape’s he went. And then he waited. To see Hedwig. Because he just wanted to see her, and she was his, she was his only and she had really, really soft feathers and she liked him even though she didn’t have to, and she was _Hedwig._ And she needed him. Probably. 

Harry takes his breath in with a sharp gasp. 

“Potter!” A voice says sharply, and Harry jerks, forcing his mind to focus, all his years of training himself to respond immediately to _that_ word, in _that_ tone. 

But it’s not Aunt Petunia when he opens his eyes (he hadn’t even realizes they had fluttered shut); belatedly he realizes the voice wasn’t nearly shrill enough. Dark hair and piercing, imperious eyes…

“Theodore?”

Nott leans back and looks at him sardonically. “Welcome back.”

“I’m not - I don’ wanna go _back_ , I need to go,” Harry mumbles. “I need to go.”

“Whoa, hold up, mate!” Blaise says. “You don’t wanna run into Malfoy in this state, why don’t you-“

State? He’s not in a _state._ He glares at Blaise a little. “It’s _Hedwig_ , I need to _go.”_

“Hedwig? What’s happened to Hedwig?” Blaise is suddenly urgent. 

“No, I need…it’s salve, for her wing. I’m supposed to be at Snape’s. I have to _go.”_

“Snape?” Theodore queries sharply, incisive now that his Head of House is involved. 

“Ugh.” Harry groans, collapsing back on some very fluffy pillow behind him. “I…I told him last night I’d take care of Hedwig today.”

Blaise’s face plainly doubts Harry’s plan. “Harry, if you go to Snape like this…”

“There is no _this!_ ” Harry snaps, and tries to hide a wince. “I’m fine!”

He _will_ be. 

“I thought you didn’t want Snape to know!” Blaise sounds exasperated. “Harry, you show up at his office tonight, he’ll _know_ you’re sick.”

Theodore looks at Harry for a long second. “And?” He questions, stately. “What happens if Snape knows?” 

“Well, that’s the question, Theo,” Harry says dryly, “and I’m not sure I want to know the answer.” 

“Like Snape could make you any more miserable than you already are,” Blaise says it pointedly, softens it with a grin. 

“You’d be surprised,” Harry murmurs darkly,and then stops. He stops, doesn’t finish, because he realizes three words into his sentence that he doesn’t _actually_ believe what he’s saying. Because he remembers.

He remembers, earlier that week, Snape hauling him up in an abandoned hallway, growling and wild, his thin fingers pressing Harry’s shoulder against cold stone until it seemed to cut into him, eyes uncharacteristically wide, mouth spitting the words. He had threatened taking points, threatened detention, probably worse things than those while Harry hadn’t really been listening, blood pounding too furiously in his chest, heartbeat in his ears. But it hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice even then, that, as angry as Snape was, he had _threatened_. He had threatened, and that was all. 

It’s one thing for cheap, blustery threats to be thrown around by people like Harry’s uncle, followed through with every once in a while to try to keep Harry in line (because _that_ worked well). 

It is another thing entirely for Snape not to act on his word, and it is something that Harry knows, intuitively. Snape is not a man afraid to follow through on his threats, and not a man to threaten idly. 

And yet, Harry had waked away that afternoon with no lasting consequences - except Snape not wanting to deal with him that evening. Harry had dodged a bullet, or…

 _He’s never hurt you_ , whispered a tentative voice somewhere in the back of his head. 

 _But he’s_ ** _wanted_** _to!_ Harry thinks back fiercely. 

 _But he_ ** _hasn’t_**.

And that’s where the catch must be. It must be, somewhere, Harry just can’t find it. There’s danger around Snape, a darkness, a feel like the man probably has memories and bodies buried in some back closet, skeletons - maybe real ones. 

The man wasn’t one of his sweet, ernest primary teachers or his bull-headed coward of an uncle, and Harry had known as soon as he had seen him how deadly the man could be. 

And, blimey, with Hedwig, the last few days, with how often Harry acts out…Harry’s practically been _handing_ the man weapons!

He _could_ hurt Harry, he _wants to_ , Harry can tell, but he’s had multiple opportunities for it, and he _hasn’t._

Harry doesn’t understand it, and it doesn’t actually make him feel any better, but it does give him options. 

Harry knows better than to count on the mercy of any adult. Just because Snape hasn’t hurt Harry yet doesn’t mean he won’t. The man wouldn’t even have to _do_ anything but hand him over to Filch. Filch would be delighted to be given leeway for that whipping he loves to remind Harry he’s saving for him someday. 

But maybe Snape _wouldn’t_ use Harry’s sickness against him, take delight in hitting him when he was weakest. Maybe…maybe, they’d rolled away just far enough from flat-out enmity, that Snape would refrain from outright disciplines…or at least overlook it, for a time. 

“Harry?” 

A gentle tap on his shoulder. 

Harry blinks, drawing himself out of his thoughts. Right. Blaise and Theodore. 

“Look, I’ve got this, don’t worry.” Harry reassures them earnestly. “I’ve been sick lots of times around adults, they hardly ever notice.”

He thinks he sees some crack, some flash of feeling in Theodore’s eyes, but then it’s gone.

“Yeah, well, Professor Snape isn’t really the type to not notice things,” Blaise says. 

Harry doesn’t argue. He does fold his arms stubbornly against his chest. “Hedwig needs her salve tonight, Blaise, and I’m going to put it on for her. Trust me, Blaise. He won’t guess a thing. I feel loads better already.”

“Well,” Theodore says. “This’ll help Snape not notice, I guess,” and there’s a clink as he draws something from his schoolbag. 

Blaise let out a startled noise, followed by a huff of outrage, and Theodore ignores him. 

“You might hit a low afterward, but at least Snape won’t learn anything.”

“What is it?” Harry says, taking it from Theodore and inspecting it carefully. 

“Potion,” Theodore says breezily.

Blaise is laughing. “You sneaky _sod_ , you told me -“

“You can’t possibly expect me to have told you I had the potion before I knew what you wanted with it, Blaise,” Theodore says condescendingly. 

Blaise sighs. “No. I didn’t.” He still looks oddly satisfied as he tells Harry gently, “Drink up! This’ll help,” 

And Harry does. 

It tastes terrible, but Harry doesn’t care, because the minute he swallows, Harry instantly - _magically_ \- feels better. The rawness in his throat fades, the goop in his nose dries up, the tension from whatever’s been feeling stuffed in his head relaxes, and he blinks, a little thrill going through him. He feels warm, and like all the hard edges have been softened, muted, just a little, and all the sudden, nothing matters quite as much anymore. 

He really should stop being so surprised be magic, but he hasn’t. It’s just too _cool!_

Theodore looks smug - it’s not really any different from the way his face normally looks. 

He catches Theodore’s eye. “Theo - _thanks,_ ” he means to say more, but he can’t figure out how, and Blaise is already pushing him up, warm hands squeezing his shoulders. 

“Go get ‘em, Harry,” Blaise says lightly, and Theodore nudges Harry forward. 

“Well, go on, Potter - go rescue your owl.” 

Theo smiles, and Harry thinks it might be the first time he’s seen it - not a half-smile, not that tiny, barely-there tip of the lips, but a full, flashed grin. It looks good. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lurv! Lyrics at the beginning are taken from Champion, by Fall Out Boy


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus is having a lovely time imagining the fall out when Potters get what they finally deserve when one of his outer alarms go off with a quiet thrum of alert, notifying him he has someone outside his office door.  
> Severus doesn’t really have guests, which means it’s probably a business associate of some sort. Severus will just deal with them. It’ll only take a moment, and Potter….he glances over. The boy’s got a quiet, almost unguarded sort of smile on his face, nearly done with the salve, fingers all greasy on one hand. He’ll will be fine.  
> “Potter, don’t move,” Severus directs. He’ll just step into the other room, and be only a moment. The boy could only do so much damage in that time, and besides, he probably won't dare step away from his injured pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are FINALLY heating up, people! And hey, this chapter's even a nice long one :) Also, Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll!

The boy’s behavior is suspicious from the start. 

Severus had half-wondered if the boy would even show up. Far be it from him to question Potter’s dedication to his owl, he thought dryly, but that moment the night before had seemed so…surreal, trapped by it’s own vague shadows and harsh tones and dream-like quality. Severus, used to living wide-awake as a creature of the night, knew better than to question it, but Potter, jerked out of sleep for the occasion, and then stumbling back to bed…would he even remember their conversation? And if he did, would he bother to come? The boy probably didn’t relish having to face Severus on his glorious student weekend any more than Severus looked forward to having the brat invade his quarters on _his_ weekend. 

It’s after the noon meal, and Severus has already accomplished all the distractions - duties, that is, that he had set out. He has time now to be annoyed that Potter is wasting it, and his ire is starting to grow. When he looks over, Potter’s bird is just sitting there, looking unsettled. 

 

 

The afternoon is fading to evening before Potter appears, tapping his wand incessantly against his thigh and looking curiously hopeful. His cheeks are flushed as if from wind, and the the school robe he’s wearing (on the weekend? Interesting) is rumpled, like he’d worn it to bed and hadn’t bothered to change. 

Severus recovers quickly, tucking away just how much Potter caught him off guard by actually showing up. “Did you dress up just for me, Potter? ” He says lightly, “I’m _flattered_.”

Potter blinks. 

_Blinks._

No glare, no rigidity in the way he’s holding himself, no set in his jaw like he’s constantly keeping himself from back talking - Severus narrows his eyes. 

But then he says, “So, Hedwig…?”, and Severus is thoroughly convinced that, as pathetic as it is, it is very in-character for Potter to be obsessed with his foul-tempered bird. He grimaces, and gestures toward the box, where the speckled fowl has her face tucked under one wing. 

The boy immediately steps toward her, chirping “Hello, Hedwig!” 

Her head comes out slowly, and she snuffles sleepily at him, clicking her beak at him a few times in welcome. 

Potter kneels down next to her. He rubs a little at the top of her head, and she leans into the touch, her eyes become half-lidded squints of pleasure while she still manages to direct a glare at Severus. 

Severus Snape has never felt his presence so completely disregarded in a room. 

“Do you have the salve?” Potter turns to him intently, still absently scratching his bird, who looks strangely like a contented cat. 

Severus thinks it’s rather ungrateful of the boy to just _assume_ , and is sorely tempted to make the  presumptuous little idiot just get it himself, but since it’s right next to Severus, he draws his wand and directs it gently over to Potter, who grabs it from it the air and studies it curiously. Curiously, not suspiciously. Something is _definitely_ _off_. Severus just doesn’t know what it is, and while he dislikes not knowing, he also knows how to wield tolerance like a weapon, and is aware that whatever kind of stupid cannot be crushed, can generally be waited out, and will crash on it’s own (in an unusually spectacular way) at the end. Severus has always found it particularly satisfying to watch the flames go up. 

Severus is having a lovely time imagining the fall out when Potters get what they finally deserve when one of his outer alarms go off with a quiet thrum of alert, notifying him he has someone outside his office door. 

He’s tempted to ignore them, of course, but damn it all if he’ll let Potter intrude on his evening, turning away guests because of him. Besides, Severus doesn’t really have guests, which means it’s probably a business associate of some sort. Severus will just _deal with them_. It’ll only take a moment, and Potter….he glances over. The boy’s got a quiet, almost unguarded sort of smile on his face, nearly done with the salve, fingers all greasy on one hand. He’ll will be _fine._  

“Potter, don’t _move,_ ” Severus directs. He’ll just step into the other room, and be only a moment. The boy could only do so much damage in that time, and besides, he’s wholly focused on his ridiculous pet. 

 

* * *

 Harry’s just finishing putting the salve on (he remembers from that first night he did it), when Snape stands suddenly, commands, “Potter, don’t _move,”_ and then sweeps out of the room. 

And Harry doesn’t, for the whole first two minutes that Snape is gone. He screws the cap back onto the salve and puts it neatly back on a nearby tabletop. He can vaguely hear voices, and he thinks about eavesdropping, but then he catches a few words like “difficult potion”, “as soon as possible”, and “stock is low”, and figures it’s not worth boring his ears with. He’s much, _much_ more interested in the shimmering potions that are sitting on a low worktable, between scattered ingredients that look like part dissected plants, part dissected body parts, and a few other things that Harry doesn’t even want to try to think about naming. 

Hedwig squawks at him lightly, like she’s indignant at having to pry his attention back, and he reaches over to brush his fingers over her feathers absentmindedly, still eying the work table. He wishes he were better at potions. He wishes he could associate them with something other than frustration and dread. It’s certainly a useful skill to have, but with Malfoy in his class and Snape teaching it, he hasn’t really got a chance, has he? And it’s not like he’d be good at it anyway. Harry forces his chin up. As if he’d _want_ to be, with Malfoy doing as much of them as he does, always smirking with that smug, pointy face.

Hedwig flaps her wings at him irritably, and he realizes his hand has paused. He hums at her. 

“Just a minute, Hedwig. _This_ is an opportunity, and not one we get everyday.” He nods at her wisely, surveying the little room. He feels off just a little, something nibbling on the edges of his consciousness telling him he should feel more more wary than he does, but…

Snape’s left him here, after all. Alone. 

It couldn’t hurt to _look_. 

Harry creeps away from Hedwig toward a shelf above a counter with a bottle that’s large at the bottom and narrow at the top, like a whiskey tanker, and has something in it that’s glowing and - no. A second ago - 

Harry steps closer. The potion is _changing color_. 

“Whoa,” he whispers. 

There’s a brief sound of something fluttering, beating the air agitated, and before Harry can give Hedwig an annoyed suggestion to settle down, he hears something else, something far more ominous. It feels inevitable as he whirls around to shattered glass, a bottle broken into pieces, knocked over by Hedwig’s wing. 

Oh, no. _No._ This is not happening. Not - 

“Hedwig!” Harry fights to keep his voice low, already dismayed, panicked, horrified. 

If there’s anything his Head of House loves (which is debatable - no, literally, Harry’s heard some of the Gryffindors dispute over whether Snape has that human capability or not), it’s potions, and Harry knows already from the classroom just how much he doesn’t tolerate anyone messing around with his craft, certainly not spattering it everywhere, messy and dripping from his workspace, leaking through the jagged fragments of bottle that once contained it.

Harry forces the shivers down, his breathing to slow, tries frantically to gather his mind, as Hedwig stares at him, cocking her head. He’s seen the expression before, gentle on her face as she lowers it and nudges her neck forward. She knows he’s upset, but doesn’t know why. 

Harry strangles a laugh that made it only halfway up his throat. 

His girl has no idea what she’s done. 

She clicks her beak a little, edges closer to him with an endearing tilt of head. 

“Hedwig, shh. Stop. Just - stay where I put you. Don’t worry,” he cradles her up, and his voice is soft, almost indiscernible as he settles her back down in her box. “Nothing will happen to you, Hedwig. I’ll - I’ll take care of it. I’ll make sure. You’re fine, you’re okay. I know it was an accident, alright? Shhh.”

Soothing noises seem to be falling from Harry’s mouth without any conscious thought. He hopes he’s doing it right, he’s seen mothers on the playground do it when other little children get hurt, and it seems to come naturally to Harry now, even though he can’t really remember ever having experienced it. It feels right, though, and Hedwig seems to calm a little from her agitated nosing.

It calms Harry, too, and he searches for that pleasant, blurry curtain film over his mind that had made him feel so unperturbed and untouchable earlier. He lets himself relax into whatever it is, and while he doesn’t feel happy, he does feel removed from the situation a bit, and he sees things sensibly. After all, wasn’t he just wishing he could figure more of Snape’s true intentions? Well, here is a prime opportunity, and Snape won’t be able to ignore it now. Hedwig has provided him with the perfect opportunity, and Harry hasn’t even realized it! His first, real, _personal_ offense against Snape, and is the man going to finally snap and act like Harry’s been expecting to this whole time? 

Harry’s barely turned away from Hedwig before the door opens, and he feels his breath catch. Harry turns slowly. 

“As dire as my hopes have been that you have not moved from where I instructed you to remain, I do believe I heard -“ Snape stops. 

His expression changes, hardens, if possible, eyes flitting to the mess of his work table. 

“What is this,” he says, that dark gaze boring into Harry, and Harry feels it _burn_. 

“Um,” he says, because he _hates_ it when adults do that, phrase it like a question, like they want an answer, an explanation. 

They don’t. They just want it payed for. 

Which is fine, because that’s what Harry wants, too, and as quickly as possible. 

“I didn’t mean to? I knocked it over. It was an accident, I swear, sir.”

He knows it won’t make any difference, but he’s stating it for the record anyway. 

“ _Sir_ , is it now?” Snape says, advancing on him slowly, so slowly, eyes traveling over Harry up and down, and Harry feels a shiver go over him despite the quietness at his core. “We must be desperate, Potter. In fact, I’m impressed that you’ve resisted the inclination to kneel at my feet or…strip and throw yourself at the wall.”

Harry blushes deeply, equal parts shame and embarrassment and anger. 

While Harry’s preoccupied biting his tongue, Snape reaches over with a lightening quick hand and - oh, _blast._ There’s a Hedwig feather in the middle of that mess. Snape’s not thick, he’ll - 

“Are you shedding feathers, now, Potter? Or may I assume that something else is involved that you - _forgot_ \- to include in your little story?” Snape’s voice is smooth and sharp, and Harry swallows. 

“No.” He says, as firmly as he can manage. He holds Snape’s gaze. “It was me. Hedwig had nothing to do with it. One of her feathers must have been caught on my robe; just leave her out of it, leave her alone, and you can have me.” 

“ _Have you,_ Mr. Potter,” His teacher’s voice is deceptively dulcet. “That’s quite an offer.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Harry says. “But Hedwig stays away. She’s just -“

Harry stops, starts, his voice halting. “It’s just that she gets kind of upset when I’m being punished, she - she doesn’t like it, but you can put her in the other room and she should settle down, she doesn’t know any better, she doesn’t like to see me…”

“In pain?” Harry can’t quite tell if Snape’s mocking him. “Yes, a common reaction from familiars, so nurturing, they tend to be…” 

Well, obviously Snape can see through Harry’s excuse, but he’ll take it anyway, won’t he? He can’t pass up the opportunity to have something over Harry, why would he - it’s a fair trade, Harry thinks. It’s fair and it makes sense, and he knows it’s much more satisfying to hurt Harry than it would be to punish a bird who didn’t have any idea of what was going on. 

Harry’s not quite sure why his stomach keeps swooping at the thought, or - no, that’s just his stomach swooping in a _general_ way, and all of the sudden there’s a blinding pain in his head, right where it was earlier, but _so much worse_ now, and he feels raspy all of the sudden, and sleepy - 

 _Stop it._ Stop, he can’t do this right now, he can’t - he can’t be _tired_ in front of _Snape,_ not now. His legs are trembling like they can’t hold his weight up, and Harry glances up at Snape, suddenly. Scared. He’s not quite sure what’s happening, but he’s always handled himself, this - this isn’t normal, he can’t - he can’t _stand_. He better tell Snape to get this over with, or…he’s not sure why. He _aches._

“I’m-“ even his voice has turned all hoarse and harsh sounding, and he has to force it from his throat with a wince. “I’m ready, now,” Harry finishes quickly, and he can hear the tone becoming faint at the end. It makes him sound scared, which makes him angry, because he’s _not._ He’s not scared. He’s…

Exhaustion, down to his very bones, sweeps though him, weakening the efforts of his stiffened limbs until he feels like a noodle from that chicken soup Blaise got him. Soppy and soggy and - he’s. Well, he’s not quite falling, but. Harry blinks. He’s looking at Snape’s knees, which is very, very odd. And then he blinks again, and he isn’t. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lurv!


End file.
